


Six Centuries Later

by Castastrophe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Humour, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Teenlock, Tumblr, Vamplock, exchangelock, mystrade, sherlock is a whiny little shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castastrophe/pseuds/Castastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mystrade-centric. Johnlock is a background pairing. Underage/Non-con there as a precaution, as Sherlock was turned as a ten year old. No johnlock sexy times, loads of mystrade sexy times. </p><p>The Holmes brothers have been vampires for over six centuries now, and Mycroft Holmes has all but given up hope of ever finding the owner of the name scrawled along his wrist. However, Greg Lestrade is more than a little renowned for running late, and what's 600 years between soul-bounds anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iolre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/gifts).



> Yooo~ My secret OTP that is maybe even a little more loved to me than Johnlock. I was thrilled to get an exchangelock fic that had Mystrade as an option. 
> 
> This is for the wonderfully talented iolre (who has already written soulmate fics that are way beyond my expertise, ohmygawd) for exchangelock. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy and please forgive me if I destroy this pairing for you.

It was a drawn out sigh, more out of habit than anything else, that escaped Mycroft Holmes' lips. He'd long passed the need for breath, but some habits died several hundred years hard, it seemed. On top of that, despite his best judgement, he had listened to his brother's advice and noted that most of the people he interacted with would likely be concerned if he were never to utilise his lungs. He absent-mindedly rubbed at the words across his wrist, a taunt more than anything else, and furrowed his brows, before his inner musings were interrupted by a newspaper dropped unceremoniously onto his lap.

“I don't know _why_ you bother sulking so often,” Sherlock drawled, before sprawling out on the sofa across from Mycroft's chosen perch of their living room recliner, “It's more of a hindrance than help, in any given case. Wouldn't you be better off using your time for more proactive activities? Perhaps working off those few extra pounds?”

Mycroft, to his credit, seldom took anything that his pest of a little brother decided to throw his way to heart, and such was the case in this instance.

“And I'm certain your own over dramatised displays could perhaps be better put to use any number of ways than in my immediate company,” Mycroft replied just as dryly, picking up the paper and beginning to rake his eyes across the front story. More sporting nonsense. How terribly dull.

 

He continued to drift his attention through each page, pointedly ignoring the disgruntled sounds of annoyance that Sherlock continued to make.

“I'm _bored_ ,” Sherlock huffed finally, and Mycroft very nearly rolled his eyes, lowering the paper and raising a brow at the boy who was scowling petulantly in his direction. Although, the elder Holmes mused, 'boy' was perhaps not the right term. In physical appearance, yes, Sherlock was little more than ten, but 'boy' hardly seemed fitting for an individual nearing six hundred and twenty three. 

“Yes, well, there isn't much you can be expected to do when your horrendous brother has cut you off from gallivanting around the streets unaccompanied, is there?” Mycroft replied airily, returning his gaze to the newspaper, “Life must be terribly difficult for the poor, hard done by Sherlock Holmes.”

“It's this forsaken _body_ ,” Sherlock all but hissed, prying at his baggy shirt and wrinkling his nose in distaste, “How can I be expected to be taken seriously when these imbeciles assume I'm a _child_?”

“Twelve times this year, Sherlock,” Mycroft mused, turning to the next page without sparing his brother a second glance, “Twelve times the local police force has brought you to the doorstep for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.”

“If they were better at doing their jobs, I wouldn't have to,” Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms across his chest and acting very much his apparent age.

 

Most of their kind took to making themselves scarce whenever possible. They limited human interaction to a minimum, and whilst they were more than capable of being out during daytime hours (contrary to popular legend), they chose to spend their time in public during the nights. Less chance of being outed in those instances, of course, and many considered it a safer method of self preservation. Once upon a time, vampires would be feared, revered even, but their numbers had been dwindling over the past couple of centuries as mankind had caught onto and been thoroughly repulsed by their mere existence. Mycroft could recall many years on the run, Sherlock reluctantly being couped up for weeks on end, merely to ensure their survival. Now, there were few enough that many humans had forgotten or outgrown their beliefs, and it was as if vampire kind were little more than a faded memory or the ramblings of the old and senile. It was better this way, Mycroft told himself on the daily, but Sherlock was seldom one to agree.

 

Whilst Mycroft spent many hours recalling darkened days of sharpened stakes, of the heat of torch fire, of the angered cries of humans thirsty for their blood, Sherlock often spent his hours recalling days of freedom, of days when he was capable of doing as he pleased and getting away with it. Sherlock was prone to calling Mycroft out on pessimism, but the elder Holmes preferred to consider himself a realist, a term which Sherlock often scoffed at. Still, with Sherlock being seven years his junior, regardless of their centuries spent together, Mycroft still found himself prone to caving to his baby brother's needs. He let out another sigh and lowered his paper once more, looking over at Sherlock, who now had his fingers pent together and his brows furrowed in thought.

“I do hate it when you get that expression,” Mycroft drawled, “It's often just prior to you doing something reckless.”

Sherlock made a non-committal noise as he stared at the ceiling, and Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, trying to remind himself that he was not, in fact, insane, before speaking his next words.

“I do believe it's almost the start of the educational year. Perhaps we could consider going back to school for a time,” Mycroft spoke quietly, and Sherlock's eyes had snapped to focusing on him, “I'm well aware of how eager you are to see how different they've become this century, and perhaps your being in a learning facility may allow you to do so on a less suspicious basis.”

 

Sherlock watched him cautiously for several moments, as Mycroft raised a questioning brow in the younger's direction.

“You're... actually serious, aren't you?” Sherlock spoke slowly, and Mycroft gave the tiniest of nods, causing Sherlock to sit upright with unnatural speed, and his lips to extend into a rather maniacal grin.

“Sometimes you're not entirely terrible,” He remarked, before standing and heading for the staircase to his room, “I think I still have a book bag and some stationery upstairs, and oh! _Oh!_ I have a blazer. Somewhere. I think. Or did I lose that back in the wars? Mycroft, this is _excellent_.”

Mycroft barely had time to acknowledge his brother's enthusiasm, before the younger vampire had disappeared in a blur of super speed. He'd have to remind him to not partake in those particular abilities once he was back in school, but for now, he allowed a small smile to lick at his lips as he picked up his paper once more. As he turned the page, his gaze flicked to his wrist just briefly, and his smile stuttered, before he pointedly avoided acknowledging the ink along his skin or the weight in his chest. 

 

* * *

 

“Oh, I'm really not sure, dear...”

“It will be fine, Mrs. Hudson. I will need some assistance with the paperwork and some of the more mundane details, as well as having somebody to fill the role of 'guardian', but I don't see it being a concern for the either of us,” Mycroft offered, straightening his tie and holding his arms out for their housekeeper's inspection, “And I would assume I look the part? It is quite the menial task when you don't have access to a reflection, after all.”

“You look very handsome, dear,” Mrs. Hudson smiled, adjusting Mycroft's collar as the younger Holmes fiddled with his cuffs, “But I'm more worried about Sherlock. You'll be in a high school, so it shouldn't be too difficult for you to interact with peers, but Sherlock... Well, he'll be with lots of little ones. I expect they won't know what to expect with him.”

“It's coming up three hundred years with us, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft offered a wry smile, “Can you say with confidence that _you_ know what to expect of him at any given point in time?”

Mrs. Hudson playfully swat at the elder Holmes' arm and offered a scolding frown, before breaking into a small smile. 

“I suppose you have a point, then. Alright, I'll just get dressed then,” She nodded, before heading back down the hall to her own quarters. It was days like today when Mycroft had less regrets about turning her than others. 

 

Mrs. Hudson had been on her deathbed when Mycroft had found her, and she had known right away what he was. She'd asked the doctors to leave her be with her 'grandson', and had quietly asked the impossible of the elder Holmes. He'd never turned a person before, never even had the urge, but something about her had struck what little of a heart he'd had. Her wrist was bare, where the lettering of a name would be, only the faded smudge of darkness remained, and his heart had ached.

“What happened?” He'd asked quietly, holding her frail wrist in his hands and frowning down at the wrinkled skin against his fingers.

“He's long since passed, love,” She explained, “It's funny how it always tells people their names, but never how you'll lose them, never how you'll meet them. It seems a trifle cruel, if you ask me. No warning, no preparation.”

 

“I've never turned before,” He murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, and she chuckled, much to his surprise.

“I doubt that it would be likely for someone to ask you to, you should consider yourself lucky,” She nodded, “I'm not ready nor willing to pass just yet. It would be a decent enough way for me to outsmart fate, and that's good enough reason for me.”

“You'll outlive everyone you care about. You'll lose your sense of taste, food tastes like absolute rubbish, and you'll be forced onto a diet of blood,” He urged, “You'll see wars, disease, plague, terrible things, and you'll always remember them. You'll lose every sense of normality you've ever had.”

She'd held out her wrist then, raising it closer to Mycroft's lips, the fake quiver of a pulse so close to his mouth causing his fangs to extend beyond his control.

“The moment that his name began to fade, I already had,” she whispered, soft resignation in her eyes, and Mycroft's chest had clenched uncomfortably, his eyes snapping closed and his fangs sinking into her skin without a further thought.

 

Mycroft had brought her back to his and Sherlock's house at the time in order to watch over her whilst she turned, and Sherlock had, for lack of a better phrase, lost it.

“Are you out of your _mind_?” The younger had asked, fingers clutched in his hair as he stood over Mrs. Hudson's prone body, “What on earth possessed you to think that this was a good idea? At least when we were turned, we were turned together. And thank whatever deity you find preferable that the bastard _died_ , because otherwise we'd be indebted to him. She's _indebted_ to you! It's basically like picking up a stray cat, but about three thousand times _worse_. Christ, Mycroft, you're meant to be intelligent.”

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft had hissed, “I know exactly what I'm doing.”

He hadn't, but despite Sherlock's constant complaining about Mycroft, he had listened and reluctantly accepted that Mycroft had a plan. It gave Mycroft enough time to come to terms with it, and thankfully, when Mrs. Hudson had completed the turn, she'd been more than happy to put Sherlock in his place herself. It was coming up three centuries together, and Sherlock was yet to admit that he actually liked her, despite his very poor efforts at concealing the fact. 

 

Regardless, the very day that he'd brought Mrs. Hudson home, Mycroft had sworn off ever turning someone again, and had explicitly forbade Sherlock of doing so either. In response, the younger Holmes had held out his wrist, the dark letterings of ' _John Watson_ ' marring otherwise flawlessly pale skin. 

“And if John comes along? What then?” Sherlock had mused, knowing it was a weak spot of his brother's. 

“We'll cross that bridge when we reach it,” Mycroft had groused, and Sherlock had left the room looking decidedly smug. 

 

“You look like an idiot,” Sherlock huffed, drawing Mycroft back to present day as the younger Holmes fidgeted with his own tie and blew a loose curl from his forehead. 

“I look like a _student_ , brother mine,” Mycroft teased, “Whereas you... look like an unkempt mop in a tie.”

Sherlock made a decidedly rude gesture then, which Mrs. Hudson caught on her way back in and clipped him over the back of the head for. 

“ _Ow_ ,” Sherlock pointedly scowled, “I'm not a c _hild,_ Mrs. Hudson. I don't require reprimand for my brother being a _prat._ ”

“Well your school mates won't be able to tell the difference between you and the next little one, so I'd advise against your usual behaviour,” Mrs. Hudson chided, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, earning him another clip across the head and the abrupt baring of Mycroft's fangs in warning, which subdued him into a pacified sulk. 

“Let's go then,” Mycroft nodded, grabbing his own backpack that Mrs. Hudson had picked up from the store the day prior. 

 

She'd outdone herself, really. Within the week of Mycroft's plan coming to light, she had enrolled both the boys in a local school for years one to twelve, meaning they'd both be able to attend the same school and convene when necessary. On top of that, she'd bought their uniforms, school books, stationery, and everything else the boys would need to help them fit in. She'd also gotten them the newest gadgets and the likes so that the pair of them would fit in that little bit better, although Mycroft had seldom even looked at his beyond checking the time. Sherlock, however, had immersed himself in his, finding it fascinating that he was able to check the weather, the news, and even social networking sites all from a hand-held device (“ _Fascinating_ , Mycroft. It's as if they've finally realised that they've been doing things the hard way for the past few centuries.”) 

 

Mycroft was admittedly a little tense, however. Mrs. Hudson had been right in that Sherlock, a being who was centuries old and knew far more than any mortal being even had the comprehension of, would likely have difficulty pretending to learn the differences between nouns and verbs and practicing his times tables. He'd find it dull, boring, and as a result, was likely to slip up. It had been a hundred and twelve years since Mycroft had last let him attempt school, but he was hoping that by having them both attend at the same time, Sherlock may very well be a little more grounded. That was the hope, anyway. 

 

They walked in relative silence to the school, Sherlock's nose buried in his phone, Mrs. Hudson appreciating the sunshine, and Mycroft lost in his thoughts. Once they'd approaced the gate, Mrs. Hudson had kissed them both on the cheek, (much to Sherlock's horror) and sent them on their way. They stopped just before the school's main entrance, and Mycroft fixed his brother with a stern gaze, which Sherlock immediately let out a hard done by sigh at and rolled his eyes. 

“You're going to ask me to recollect all the details we have, which, mind you, we don't really need to,” Sherlock drawled, and Mycroft nodded, “Fine, fine. My name is William, and you are Alexander. We've moved to this school after the terrible accidental death of our parents. We've gone to live with our _Aunt_ _Martha_ , who's so _generously_ taken us in. I am ten years old, you're seventeen, and we did not witness the first nor second world wars, nor any of the numerous ones prior. I like playing toy soldiers, racing cars, video games, whatever else. I do not drink blood, I am not a vampire, I do not answer the question of my last school as being in Germany, nor do I mention it was back in the early nineteen hundreds. Dull, dull, _dull_.”

“Also no deducing, no baring of your fangs, no super speed, and for the love of all that is sacred, do _not_ go around _smelling_ people,” Mycroft urged, drawing another eye roll from his brother, “Are we understood?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and adjusted his bag straps, offering a sickeningly sweet smile that Mycroft was equal parts impressed and disturbed by, “Oh but _please_ Mycroft, I'm so _excited_ to meet my new _friends_.”

“Please just go away,” Mycroft drawled, and Sherlock offered a decidedly smug smirk before trotting up the stairs and leaving Mycroft to pinch at the bridge of his nose. 

 

Mycroft found his own class relatively easily and offered polite smiles at his fellow classmates as they took their seats around him. One of the lads who sat by him stuck out a hand, which Mycroft took in politeness and shook.

“Haven't seen you around. You new here?” The boy asked, and Mycroft nodded. 

“Just moved to the area.”

“Good. Good to hear. Name's John,” The boy smiled lazily, and Mycroft extended the same courtesy. 

“Alexander,” The elder Holmes offered, and John nodded. 

“Definitely a traditional sort of name. Not necessarily bad though, is it? Old school parents as well?” John teased, and Mycroft nodded stiffly. 

“I... yes. They were, rather,” He cleared his throat, and the look of horror across John's face would almost have been comical. 

“Were? Well shit, I am so... Wow. I'm sorry,” John scratched at the back of his head awkwardly, and Mycroft shook his head, still smiling politely. 

“Quite alright, you weren't to know,” He waved a hand dismissively, “You've been at this school for a while?”

“Since first year, yup,” John nodded, stretching a little (bad back, likely caused by bad posture, the boy tended to slouch, Mycroft noted), “It stays about the same regardless.”

 

Whatever else the boy intended to discuss was lost then, as their teacher entered the room and introduced themselves as Mister Stamford, and Mycroft dutifully sat through the drawl of the school year introduction, before being instructed to open their text books and begin work on Shakespeare, of all things. Mycroft always found such teachings comical, and often wondered what William may have thought of being studied so intently, were he still alive. He wondered if his class would appreciate hearing first hand knowledge of the man's plays, or if they'd appreciate the tale of Sherlock barricading the man in his bed chambers one evening and refusing to let him leave until the vampire had explained in detail, each and every inconsistency he had found with Macbeth. Mycroft knew for a fact that Sherlock himself was the sole reason that speaking the play's name out loud was bad luck. 

 

The elder Holmes managed to last through literature with little pain involved, and took himself off to mathematics with no complaint. On his way there, he was approached by a near silent footed girl that he vaguely recognised from the class prior, who introduced herself as Anthea and said little more other than that if he needed assistance, she'd be happy to help. He nodded his gratitude and thanked her verbally, before slipping into Maths and dealing with another class of knowledge that he had long ago learned and never really had much need for in the years since. He gave humans credit where credit was due, however, in that they had certainly corrected the errors of their teachings along the way. It was certainly much easier than it had been back in the days, and he had to remind himself to slow down, should he rouse suspicion. He spent the lesson keeping his head and hand down, answering only when asked upon, and putting the right amount of hesitation in each of his answers so as not to seem too knowledgeable. It was refreshing in a way, and still, his mind kept drifting to his little brother and hoping beyond anything that he was keeping himself out of trouble. As soon as class had finished, however, and the bell had begun to ring, the door was flung open and Sherlock himself stood there, wild eyed and grinning near maniacally, and Mycroft resisted the urge to groan, pressing his fingers to his temple instead as he grabbed his books and approached Sherlock with a frown along his features. 

“Oh, don't look at me like _that_ ,” Sherlock chided, but Mycroft shook his head and toook Sherlock by the arm, dragging him to a secluded place by some lockers and out of ear shot of other students.

 

“ _How_ , dare I ask, did you get from your room all the way down the hall, to here, in the space of a few seconds?” Mycroft murmured, grip strong on his brother's arm, as the younger sulked petulantly. 

“They're not going to know. I was quick enough to not even be picked up on the cameras,” Sherlock waved a hand airily, his grin returning, “Mycroft, they're _fascinating_. It's like a whole new breed of human. They're so much more tolerant, and they may still have quite a way to go, but they actually have female teachers. Female teachers that can do as they please. They have _rights._ ”

“They did have rights before, brother mine,” Mycroft sighed, loosening his grip as he began to walk to the cafeteria, “Decidedly less, but they still had them.” 

“Mrs. Hooper is married to her soul-bound,” Sherlock breathed, pausing in his step and causing Mycroft to turn his attention to his little brother, “Another _woman_.”

This caught Mycroft's interest, as he absent mindedly rubbed at his own wrist, a gesture that Sherlock caught with his damnably keen eyes. 

 

“Yes, Mycroft. Times are different. They may even be more accepting of our little... _problems_ ,” Sherlock stuck out his own wrist, shaking it slightly to emphasise the decidedly male name on his skin. Mycroft, a turbulent range of emotions coiling tightly in his stomach, narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and snapped before he could even begin to reign it in. 

“Six _hundred_ years, Sherlock. Do you really think either of us is going to find either of them?” Mycroft spat, extending his wrist and waving it beneath his brother's nose openly for the first time in centuries, “Six _hundred_. There was either some kind of error when we popped out or they have long since come and gone with absolutely no chance of having met us to begin with.”

 

“If they had died, their names would be smudged, don't be an imbecile,” Sherlock glowered, and Mycroft bunched ginger hair in his fingers as he clenched his eyes and jaw, forcibly keeping his fangs from extending in mere frustration. He pulled himself together relatively quickly and stood, straightening his uniform as he did so. 

“What do you care, little brother? You've shown no interest in locating your soul-bound in all these years, why _now_?” Mycroft urged, voice soft, desperate, and he watched as Sherlock's gaze shifted from his own, swallowing thickly. 

“I am, and always will be, a child in his eyes in any sense, regardless of if we met or not,” Sherlock responded, voice a bare whisper of its usual self, “I had no chance from the moment I was turned, but it doesn't mean that you don't have one either, you pompous twit.”

The statement hit Mycroft like a direct blow to the solar plexus, and he felt all of his anger bleed away in an instant, replaced swiftly with an overwhelming desire to provide his brother with comfort that he knew Sherlock would not need, nor appreciate. 

“Sherlock...”

“We should at least go and pretend to eat lunch, should we not?” Sherlock mused, features schooled back into his usual bored indifference, “I believe Mrs. Hudson at least decided to pack some sandwiches, and I expect that will be good enough as a cover.”

Mycroft's lips were pressed tight into a thin line as he offered a reluctant nod and followed Sherlock outside and into the courtyard. 

 

They spent their lunch pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room, and Mycroft listened as Sherlock rattled off the details of his day, seemingly thrilled to be able to voice all of the deductions regarding his fellow classmates and teachers that he had been forced to internalise to avoid suspicions. All the while, however, Mycroft could almost feel the letters on his skin, heavy with a physical presence that near seared in their intensity. For the longest time, he had done his best to force back his lamentations at never having found his soul-bound, and it had done enough to keep his loneliness at bay to try and convince himself that he had never truly existed. 

 

Immortality ought to have broadened Mycroft's options, his chances at having found 'the one', but it had only seemed to narrow it further. Which year, decade, century, was his soul-bound even meant to have been born? Had he been one of the rare cases where the name that appeared on his skin at birth had been inexplicably wrong? You were always meant to find your soul-bound, but there had been the seldom heard of cases where that just... didn't happen. Were Sherlock and himself destined to face the same path? He felt as if he'd waited centuries for a train that was never going to pull into the station. He was expected to live forever, and although he knew he had Sherlock, he knew he had Mrs. Hudson, and he knew of a handful of others that his sire had turned (his blood-siblings, or so they were technically referred to), a life of immortality was a horrendously lonely one, and despite his logical side insisting that relationships only ever lead to distraction and destruction, he sometimes ached at the emptiness that he'd become accustomed to. 

 

He'd been turned so young. He'd not even had time to experience relationships with others as a teenage boy ought to have. It was often accepted that you would enjoy yourself with others before finding your soul-bound, perhaps even father children, but he'd had that taken away from him so very long ago that he was under no misguidance of ever getting that opportunity again. And even now, if he were to meet his soul-bound, what then? How could he possibly expect a mortal to understand, to love him as the creature he was? 

“...Mycroft?” Sherlock's hand rest on top of the elder Holmes' shoulder then, jolting Mycroft from his musings. His little brother looked up at him with piercing eyes, blatant concern in his gaze, as he saw through every emotional barrier that Mycroft had attempted to put up around him. 

“Apologies,” Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock hesitated, seemingly wanting to press further, but deciding against it. He continued on with his chatter, and Mycroft nodded along appropriately until the bell rang for their next lesson and Mycroft excused himself. He grabbed his books from his locker and rubbed his wrist once again, those two words haunting him as they had for centuries. He let out a soft breath of air, and softy spoke the words out loud, bracing himself for his next class as best as he could. 

 

“Gregory Lestrade.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got super flaily at how this was received by iolre and others, so I decided to stop holding chapter two for ransom and just post it straight away. Few more days till the next update, but oh my gosh, thanks to all who have checked it out so far.

Despite Mycroft's insistence that it really wasn't necessary, at the end of their first day, Mrs. Hudson was waiting to collect them. Sherlock put up as much of a fuss as he could, until she began asking about his day, and the younger Holmes was off on a tangent about differentials in learning from one student to another, and how he was convinced that two of his teachers were having an affair and that he deserved outright _praise_ for not saying a word, because clearly everyone else there was an _imbecile_ if they hadn't noticed the signs. The younger Holmes' banter carried them their entire way home, and Mycroft was pleased to make it that far without having to make a comment on his own day. Once they were through the door, however, and Sherlock had headed straight to the fridge for a blood bag, Mrs. Hudson eyed him off knowingly, and Mycroft merely waved her away in mild annoyance. 

 

“I have no need to discuss it,” He offered stiffly, as she took his coat, “It was as to be expected. Their learning and teaching techniques have improved, but overall, school has remained school.”

“And did you make any friends?” She asked innocently, and Mycroft tried his best to not roll his eyes. 

“Friends are hardly a necessity, Mrs. Hudson. You and I both know that their lifespan is a blink of an eye in the grand scale of things,” Mycroft huffed, and she smiled knowingly. 

“That's alright love, you can make some a little later, no rush,”She pat his arm, before sending him into the kitchen after Sherlock, who was leaning against the kitchen counter and demolishing his second bag. 

 

Mycroft resisted the urge to let a small smile slip through, knowing that his mere acknowledgement of Sherlock's unusual appetite would be enough to irk his younger brother. Sherlock seemed to have caught Mycroft's intentions as it was, however, and scowled as he pulled his fangs from the bag and stared him down in challenge. Mycroft, never one to back down, took the bait with glee. 

“Growing minds do mean growing appetites, I see,” He offered casually, pulling out his own bag and tossing it in the microwave.

“Sod off,” Sherlock huffed, as Mrs. Hudson glared at him as she passed, “The only learning conducted was that of the observational kind towards my so called peers. I have several theories now of differentiating disruptions to cause and the effects they may have. They're a healthy sized test group, and I refuse to let that opportunity go to waste.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chided, “None of your experimenting on the little ones.”

“Hmm... perhaps not, for moral reasoning in itself. Most people may frown upon it,” The younger Holmes mused, tapping his lip in thought, “Perhaps _Alexander's_ classmates may be more beneficial. They're at prime learning age both mentally and physically. Prime state of puberty, I can only assume they'd be _fascinating_ to monitor.”

“Is it at all possible to ask you to behave yourself?” Mycroft lamented, as he pulled his now warmed meal from the microwave and extended his fangs. 

“It's possible to _ask,_ yes,” Sherlock smirked, tossing his empty bags into the bin and heading to his room in the blink of an eyelid, much to Mycroft's perpetual frustration. 

 

“He may be coming up to six hundred and twenty three, but I often wonder if he _ever_ stopped being a child,” Mrs. Hudson commented, not without affection, and Mycroft shook his head as he drained the bag of liquid in his hands in steady gulps. 

“I doubt he ever will, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft sighed, tossing out his own empty bag as he turned to face her with a serious expression, the smile slipping from her face in an instant. 

“Ensure he does whatever homework he was assigned. He may not think he needs to, but it is a necessity to maintain a sense of normality,” He commanded, and Mrs. Hudson nodded immediately. 

“Yes, sire,” She offered quietly, before taking her leave and disappearing in a breath of wind. 

 

Mycroft disliked using his powers of persuasion over the woman, but he had sired her, after all, and sometimes, there was little other way to ensure he got some time to himself. He took up roost in the lounge once again, easing himself back into his recliner with a glass of wine rich enough to pass his muted senses, and closing his eyes as his thoughts shifted and drifted along the events of his day. Sherlock, having been turned as a child, had been to school many times since having been sired, once the times had progressed enough for education to be commonplace. Even when it hadn't, Magnussen had ensured that funds were available for private tutors to ensure that both Sherlock and Mycroft were well educated. Mycroft's skin crawled at the thought of the vampire, an ironically human reaction to the figure who had torn their humanity from them. 

 

Mycroft thought back to earlier in the day when John had seemed so mortified at the joking about his parents, before realising they were deceased, and a bitter smile crossed his lips. Oh, if only John  _knew_ . If only he knew how Charles Augustus Magnussen had made him sit and watch as he'd slaughtered their parents and turned his baby brother in what Mycroft had foolishly thought was a bizarre burglary at the time. If only John  _knew_ how Mycroft had come to from his own turning, covered in his and his parents' blood, the stench of their bodies permeating the air, as Sherlock's sobs roused him to full consciousness. The glass in his hand shattered as the thought sat heavy in his mind, and he was torn to present day by his skin attempting to instantly heal around the shards in his skin. 

 

He grimaced at the wine and blood that was now spilling across his uniform, and focused his mind to push the shards out, before the skin healed, leaving no scabs nor scars behind. He stared at pale skin and felt his brows furrow of their own accord. Exceptionally fast healing would be a benefit, many would think, but it didn't work the same for his mind, where he'd have appreciated it the most. 

“Oh Mycroft, what have you done?” Mrs. Hudson clucked, appearing by his side, pupils blown wide at the stench of his blood. She never indulged however, and merely reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, cleaning his skin and gesturing for him to take off his shirt. 

 

“A minor accident,” Mycroft replied airily as he began to undo his tie and shirt, “It is, at times, easy to forget one's own strength.”

“Well hand me those so I can wash them and hopefully they won't stain,” Mrs. Hudson smiled, and Mycroft did just that, as Mrs. Hudson procured a clean shirt from what seemed to be thin air. He offered a tight lipped smile as he pulled it on, and she offered a much warmer one in return, before disappearing to the laundry. His solitude was further disturbed as Sherlock then appeared, sniffing the air with apparent distaste. 

“Ugh, what have you done this time?” the younger asked, wrinkling his nose, “God, that's awful. You positively reek.”

“Yes, well, that's allegedly to stop you feeding on your siblings, so I suppose it works,” Mycroft drawled, and Sherlock flopped down on the couch across from him, pointedly raising his own shirt to cover his nose as he glared in Mycroft's direction. 

 

Forever the drama queen. 

 

“Did you do your homework?” Mycroft asked firmly, and Sherlock cocked a brow. 

“Fascinating, how it only takes a single day at school and you're right into parent mode,” Sherlock mused, and Mycroft fixed him with an unwavering stare that Sherlock soon caved beneath. 

“Yes, alright, fine,” Sherlock huffed, “The homework is bloody well done, not that I see any _point_ in it anyway because frankly, I--”

“Sherlock, you are meant to be a ten year old child to these people,” Mycroft interrupted, “Would you kindly just act like it with them, and keep the same intolerable behaviour away from me?”

Sherlock huffed, but Mycroft took it as a victory on his behalf. At least, until his little brother then crossed his arms across his chest and dropped off to sleep before Mycroft could tell him to sod off to bed instead. Small victories on both sides, then, but the war would carry on. He retired to his own room then, advising Mrs. Hudson of his intentions to sleep, before closing the door behind him and falling into bed. He rolled onto his side and tucked his hand beneath his pillow, catching the barest sliver of writing from under the edge of the case, before closing his eyes and drifting into dreamless slumber. 

 

 

The second school day was progressing much the same as the first, right up until midway through their second class, when there was an unexpected knock at the door, and a sheepish grin attached to a rather striking young man made its presence known through the door. Mycroft's history teacher paused in her drawl and turned an exasperated expression towards the latecomer, before waving him inside without a further word. The boy took a seat by Mycroft, despite there being plenty near the back of the classroom, and haphazardly threw open his pencil case and began to noisily rummage through it for a pen. Mrs. Morris paused in her writing on the board and turned to look at the newcomer with a raised brow, as a few giggles broke out around the class. 

“Sorry,” the boy smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head affectionately in response, before returning to the board. 

 

“Alright there mate?” John whispered over Mycroft's desk to the newcomer, who nodded in reply and looked up with an eager grin. 

“Yeah, later back from holidays than we were reckoning we would be. Did you catch the game on the weekend? Couldn't believe the broncos managed to get--”

“Do you _mind,_ Greg?!”the teacher snapped, slamming her ruler on the desk and causing the new boy, Greg, to sit bolt upright. 

“Sorry ma'am!” Greg offered, expression deadly serious, as he began to furiously copy notes into his book. It seemed enough for the teacher, who returned to her lesson, both John and Greg seemingly agreeing to catch up on break. 

 

Mycroft, who had little to no interest in history whatsoever (He had lived through most of what they were discussing, and had no desires to do so again), idly took a handful of notes, and used the rest of his time taking in the sight of his newest classmate. Kind smile, eyes already beginning to wrinkle a little at the edges with the frequency of them, well toned body (probably a rugby player, like John), and open eyes. He also had dark brown (almost black, really,  _curious_ ) hair, flecked with grey at the sides, just above his ears. It was... appealing. Add to that that in his apparent rush to get to class, his pulse was beating heavy and steady just beneath his skin, and Mycroft was positively ensnared. He swallowed hard and fought back on the primal extension of his fangs that were threatening to push through at the mere proximity of the boy. 

 

The teacher finished her notes on the board and let the class work on a few questions from the textbook amongst themselves, which Mycroft focussed intently enough on that he barely registered the voice next to him, until a hand was waving in front of his face. He looked up and met the bright eyed gaze of Greg, and flicked a brief glance to the open smile provided to him before he registered that he'd been spoken to. 

“I'm sorry, what?” He asked, and Greg let out an easy laugh. 

“I was just introducing myself. John says you're new,” Greg explained, holding out his hand, “The name's Greg. You?”

“Myc--” Mycroft fumbled, catching himself just in time as he shook Greg's hand and cleared his throat, “Sorry. My name is Alexander.”

If Greg caught his stumble, he showed no sign of recognising it, and Mycroft was relieved, still slightly flustered by the warm skin clasped in his hand. He let it go and offered a nod and a small smile, which Greg returned. 

“So what brings you to our neighbourhood then, Alex?” Greg asked, “I mean, if it's okay to call you that.”

“Certainly. I uh, that is, my brother and I, have moved in with our Aunt,” Mycroft explained, and Greg merely nodded in response. 

“Same reason I ended up here. Well if you need a hand with anything, give us a yell, alright? Consider Johnny boy and I your newest buddies, yeah?” Greg grinned, and Mycroft felt a blossom of heat trickle down his spine, and _oh dear_. 

 

He spent the rest of the class half heartedly paying attention to his work, and half absorbed in John and Greg's conversation. They were rugby team mates (as assumed), but they barracked for opposing teams (amusing, it seemed). Greg had come back late from a holiday to Scotland to visit family with his Aunt, which John was not surprised at, as supposedly, Greg was renowned for his tardiness. Occasionally, Greg even asked questions of Mycroft (“You follow the league Alex?”, “You the older brother, or you the little one like John here?”), who found himself responding easier than he would have liked. He prided himself on his privacy, and with a background and heritage such as his own, it was often a necessity. Yet, here Greg was, getting him to chat far too casually than what a human should. 

 

By the time the bell rang for lunch, Mycroft was thoroughly intrigued. Still, he said nothing as Sherlock trotted up to him in the hall and began rattling on about his day at full speed. He had apparently seemed distracted, however, as Sherlock fixed him with his trademark petulant pout and huffed dramatically when Mycroft had not responded at an appropriate interval. 

“ _Really_ , Mycroft. I'd think you'd be more interested in my studies,” Sherlock groused, and Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “You can't honestly have found something interesting of your own to dwell on, you're _far_ too boring.”

“Thank you, as always, for your insight, little brother,” Mycroft drawled, a small smirk licking at Sherlock's lips, “It's nothing of importance. I simply... may have made a friend.”

There was a brief, albeit awkward silence, before Sherlock responded with wide eyes and a snort. 

“... _You_?” He teased, “How on _Earth_ did you manage _that_?”

“Contrary to  _ your _ popular belief,” Mycroft teased back, “Perhaps some people find me likeable.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, “In any case, as I was saying...”

 

Mycroft found himself zoning out again, but managed to respond in kind at each interval Sherlock expected him to, and managed to make it until the end of lunch with no further concerns. He went into his next class (French, how  _ dull _ ) and was surprised to find once again, that Greg had decided to take a seat next to him. Apparently being 'the new kid' still had novelty behind it, but Mycroft was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so, smiled politely as he took his seat. John, it seemed, had picked another language class for this block, so Mycroft soon found himself the centre of Greg's rather flattering attentions. 

 

“French, hey?” Greg grinned, and Mycroft nodded somewhat stiffly. 

“When asked to specify my least known language, French came to be the answer,” Mycroft explained, and Greg looked at him with growing curiosity. 

“Least known? So... German, Italian, Spanish, you know  _ all _ of those better than you know French?” Greg asked, and Mycroft, if he still had the ability to do so, was convinced he'd be blushing. 

“I'm... fluent in many languages, yes,” Mycroft spoke quietly, “Some may even say I'm fluent in French, but the school would not let me have a free period, so here I am.”

“Glad I sat next to you then,” Greg grinned teasingly, and Mycroft felt a stirring of heat in his abdomen and  _ ohhhh dear _ . 

 

After their French teacher had made his introductions, (Monsieur Anderson, he said) he called upon Mycroft directly. 

“I have been advised that you're actually a fluent speaker, Mister Hudson, and have chosen French as it is your  _ least _ fluent of your offered studies. Is this correct?” Monsieur Anderson asked, and Mycroft merely nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the fixed attention of his peers. 

“Quite impressive. I would ask that you introduce yourself to the class in French, then. Most of the students have a basic understanding, but of course, I would be happy to hear whatever extent of your knowledge you are willing to provide me,” Monsieur Anderson nodded, and Mycroft awkwardly cleared his throat. His French was a little rusty, his use for it dwindling since their moving from France thirty odd years ago, but he found it was much like riding a bike. He gave his name, where he had moved from, and a basic run through of his mainly feigned interests. He spoke briefly of his last school, fabricated from a story that he'd heard a student provide on television one afternoon, his teachers there, his favourite subjects, and about his pest of a little brother. When he'd finished, Monsieur Anderson nodded in very apparent approval, and Greg was looking at him with a slightly parted mouth, causing Mycroft to shift awkwardly under the scrutiny.

 

“Magnifique. I'd ask for your assistance in some lessons, Mister Hudson, if you would be so kind,” Monsieur Anderson smiled, “And of course, it would be very much appreciated if you would consider tutoring some of the students who may have a harder time grasping their studies.”

Mycroft reluctantly nodded – he wasn't keen on making a name for himself here – as he turned to his book before him and began to take notes regardless. 

“Hey, Alex,” Greg whispered, drawing Mycroft's reluctant attention his way and grinning when he got it, “I haven't got a clue about half of what you just said, but it was crazy impressive.”

“Thank you kindly,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg ran a hand awkwardly over his hair as a light flush crept along his cheeks. 

“It was also, you know, crazy hot. Language of love and all that,” Greg offered teasingly, throwing in a wink for good measure, and there was that feeling spreading like molten lava through Mycroft's body once again and  _ oh. Oh dear.  _

 

He pointedly ignored his classmate as best as he could for the rest of the lesson, responding only when asked work related questions, and fumbling through those with as little grace as was possible. It was horrendously mortifying, not that Greg seemed to mind. He seemed to get some kind of kick out of seeing Mycroft flustered, and  _ really _ , Mycroft had six hundred and thirteen years or so on the boy, so it shouldn't have been happening as often as it was. It was just as the bell rang, however, that Greg abruptly and irrevocably held Mycroft's complete and utter attention. He'd rolled his sleeves up just slightly as he'd grabbed his books and began to head for the door, and it was that split second that left Mycroft glued to his seat. It was a flash of ink, the barest moment of it open to him that had shaken him to his core, two words on another's skin that he'd never thought he'd see. 

 

In neat, clearly printed letters along Greg's wrist, were the words 'Mycroft Holmes'.

 

When a vampire went into distress, it produced many of the same effects of a dying blood-kin, and so, it was only a matter of moments before Sherlock was standing at his classroom door, looking around the room with wide eyes, before settling on Mycroft's still prone form. 

“What is it? What's happened? I could feel it from all the way down the hall,” Sherlock urged, pushing his way past Mycroft's oblivious classmates and scrabbling to rest his hands on each of Mycroft's shoulders, as the elder Holmes looked down at his little brother with wide eyes.

“I...” He faltered, his mind struggling to register what he'd just seen. And of course, of  _ course _ , he was known to Greg ( _ Gregory,  _ his mind corrected...) as Alexander. Of  _ course _ Gregory would have no clue, no idea, that he had just met the man that he was soul-bound to. Of  _ course _ this would be a burden for Mycroft to bear on his own shoulders. 

 

“Are you alright, Alexander? And who are you, lad?” Monsieur Anderson asked, directing the last part at Sherlock. 

“My name is William, I'm Alexander's brother. He... texted me during class,” Sherlock flung the excuse out of mid air, “He's not feeling well. I think he should be sent home.”

“Oh, do you now?” Monsieur Anderson offered, crossing his arms across his chest, and Sherlock fixed him with an intense gaze that Mycroft knew all too well as Sherlock's seldom used heavy influence. Anderson blinked, eyelids drooping slightly as he watched Sherlock just as intently in return. 

“Yes... perhaps he should. Let's get him to the sick bay then,” Anderson murmured, and Sherlock nodded, breaking the eye contact and following a perplexed looking Anderson with Mycroft right beside him. 

 

“Mycroft, what is it?” Sherlock urged, voice quiet enough to only be heard between them.

“I'm in his classes,” Mycroft murmured, “All these years, and I stumble into his  _ classes _ .”

“What _are_ you on ab--” Sherlock paused, his eyes flitting in their sockets as he pieced as much of the puzzle together as he could. They widened comically then, and his mouth dropped open. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” He breathed, “He's  _ here _ ? Six hundred years and you find him in a  _ high school _ ?”

Mycroft fixed him with a stern glare of 'let's  _ not _ talk about this  _ right here _ ', as the pair of them were left in the sick bay for Mrs. Hudson to arrive. 

 

“Mycroft, this is  _ excellent _ ,” Sherlock rushed, his excitement more than apparent, “I told you that there were too many extenuating situations for you to be an outlier. I knew this was a viable situation. Oh, Mrs. Hudson will be thoroughly pleased. I imagine she'll want to meet him right away.”

“Sherlock...”

“Oh, there are so many things to discuss! Is he handsome? Trusting my luck, he will be, because god forbid you end up with anybody as equally unattractive as you. Ah, but perhaps you deserve a tiny bit of luck, who am I to judge? In any case--”

“Sherlock.”

“\-- I imagine he'd have to be patient in the very slightest. I imagine to balance you out, good sense of humour, less than horrendous body odour, charming, intelligent, pretty much everything you  _ aren't _ , really, and-”

“ _ Sherlock _ .”

 

The younger Holmes snapped his mouth shut, as Mycroft's fangs extended just slightly in a primal display of dominance that his little brother seldom ignored. Regardless of who was turned first, or of any other factor that played into it, age was such an important factor between vampires in regards to dominance that Sherlock had no choice but to back down to a superior. Beyond that, however, Sherlock tended to hold on to his one human trait of respecting his elders, so he even showed a lot more tolerance and submission towards Mrs. Hudson, despite her being several centuries younger, simply because her mortal life had outgrown his own.

“We will discuss this at home, but for the time being,  _ shut up _ ,” Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock lowered his gaze, nodding quietly as Mycroft retracted his fangs and the pair waited in silence for their 'Aunt' to arrive. 

 

Mycroft's mind was turbulent, and his body even more so. Was this why he had reacted so strongly to Gregory's mere presence? Was his body so in tune with his soul-bound's, that he was hard wired to respond so eagerly with barely anything more than a smile or a cheekily spoken word? His responses had been near  _ human _ , and it was a thought that exhilarated and terrified him in equal parts. He swallowed thickly on the lump rising in his throat and reached down to his own wrist, parting his cuff and brushing his thumb across the lettering he found there. Sherlock said nothing as he watched, but what he hid with his words, he spoke volumes with his eyes. For the first time in centuries, Mycroft saw something in his baby brother's gaze that he had thought he may not see again, and which he imagined may reflect in his own. 

 

Hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huehuehue, Sherlock might sometimes be a bit 'off' in this fic, but I hope I'm doing him alright so far. Please forgive, many thank, much love, please. (No, but really, please just tell me if he's a bit dumb and I'll try and make him more... 'Sherlocky'?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was done entirely on mobile. Please forgive any errors or any auto corrects that I may have missed in my read through.

It was a heavy silence draped across the lounge, as Mycroft turned thought after thought over in his mind. Sherlock, who Mycroft had snapped at fifteen minutes earlier, was sulking spectacularly, sprawled out on the sofa with his gaze intermittently flicking towards his older brother in curiosity. It couldn't be too much longer, Mycroft knew, before Sherlock was trying his patience once again.

 

The younger vampire was positively vibrating with questions, theories, and God only knows what else, as he pent his fingers and desperately tried to adhere to Mycroft's demand of silence.

 

Mrs. Hudson had collected them and walked them home, and as Sherlock had expected, had been delighted to hear of Mycroft's recent developments. He'd politely asked her to stop asking questions however, and demanded that Sherlock do the same, lest his own mind collapse on itself under the various weights resting upon it.

 

A part of him had always hoped, always tried to reassure himself that even if he were to meet his soul-bound, perhaps the world would show him mercy by having Gregory Lestrade be intolerable. To have him appear as a handsome, intelligent, well rounded young man, however? Perhaps it was the cruellest fate to be bestowed upon Mycroft thus far. He had considered the thought of meeting a mortal soul-bound many times across the years, but to have the reality placed right before him was a different matter entirely, and his mind screamed at him that it was impossible. That the one thing he had ached for was still out of reach.

 

"Oh be quiet," Sherlock suddenly piped up, and Mycroft fixed him with a glare, "You're thinking loud enough to wake the undead."

"Well at least one of us has to," Mycroft drawled, and Sherlock fixed him with a pointed look.

"Oh but I have been, Mycroft," Sherlock pressed, sitting up in a graceful swing of limbs, "You've found Gregory Lestrade, the very soul quite literally made for you, and yet you still hesitate. Why? I've concluded that it likely has something to do with 'species' concerns, for lack of a better term, in which case, you're even more of an idiot than I'd thought."

"There are many things to consider in such circumstances," Mycroft reasoned tersely, "Mortality is merely the start of it."

 

"Then WHAT is the problem?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowing, "Don't tell me you're afraid of a relationship."

"He's a human _being_ , Sherlock," Mycroft snipped, "Even if he were drawn to me, when he finds out who I am, what I am, what then? He's hardly going to want to share a blood bag by the fire now, is he? He'll age, he'll be prone to illness... And even if he were accepting, what's to say that I won't wake up one morning to a friend or family member of his looming over me with a stake in their grasp?"

 

There was silence for a moment, as Sherlock regarded him, his gaze sweeping over his older brother's face as he deduced everything he could in a matter of moments. "You're not scared of a relationship, you're scared of gaining one and then losing it," Sherlock spoke quietly, "The great Mycroft Holmes is being hampered by his concept of mortality, how _fickle_."

"Don't sit there and act as if YOU could possibly know how I feel on the matter," Mycroft spat, and Sherlock's back straightened, surprise across his features as Mycroft suddenly realised the implications of what he had just said. "Sherlock, that's not to say that-"

"Oh, the message is clear, don't worry," Sherlock replied tersely, "I'll excuse myself."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft began, tone decidedly softer, but his brother had already disappeared.

 

Mycroft let out a soft sigh, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes as Mrs. Hudson came in with a fresh bag of blood and some wine. He expected her to leave immediately after, but instead, she filled the recently vacant spot on the sofa and offered a melancholy smile.

"I don't suppose I'd be lucky enough to find that you haven't been eavesdropping?" Mycroft drawled, pressing his fingertips to his temples and rubbing just slightly.

"Unfortunately not, dear," Mrs. Hudson offered quietly, "Unintentional as it was, of course."

"Of course..." Mycroft murmured dryly, and she reached over to place a hand on his knee.

"I still remember meeting my one for the first time, love. Enhanced memory or not, I'd never have forgotten it," she sighed, dreamy gaze across her features, and Mycroft was admittedly intrigued.

 

Three hundred years together, and the love Mrs. Hudson had lost had never been discussed.

 

"It was... A pleasant experience?" Mycroft prompted and she placed a hand against her chest and chuckled.

"Oh goodness, no," she laughed, "I was being seen to by a priest for what they'd thought was the flu. You know what it was like back then, could right well kill you. A miracle I pulled through in the first place. He was the farmer next door's brother, and he was a right royal prat to begin with. I was good friends with his brother, you see, so they sent supplies over whilst I was holed up. Miserable soul, he was, but his brother had insisted on sending him over. It was my name on his wrist, after all, and my neighbour had thought it would be a way for us to get speaking. Get speaking we did, but it was usually in arguments."

"You were bed ridden with flu, and still had the energy to argue?" Mycroft mused, smile licking at his lips and Mrs. Hudson's smile only grew.

"No such thing as being too unwell to prove a man wrong, love," she offered, and Mycroft found a chuckle of his own emerging. It wasn't a hard thing to imagine Mrs. Hudson as a fiery young woman at the best of times.

 

"I imagine that your temperance toward each other changed, then?" Mycroft prompted, and she laughed again.

"Well it wasn't common to even live past forty back then," she mused, "It seemed we felt we were running out of a time. A midlife crisis, you might say. So, we tolerated each other. I got well, we went on some rather reluctant outings together, but I found that I actually enjoyed our fierce debates. A woman ought to have known her place back then, and if he'd been anyone else, he may very well have enforced that. He encouraged the behaviour though, and we found comfort in each other more than anything else. I don't even know at which point I fell so very much in love with him, but we were married not long after."

 

"And the marriage itself was a happy affair?" Mycroft pressed, and she let out a soft sigh.

"Yes and no," she explained, "Oh, it was a different time. We tried so hard for children, but it just never came to be. Children was all he'd ever wanted, and I'd expected him to break it off, soul bond be damned."

She paused for a few moments, and Mycroft placed a hand over hers on his knee, which returned the smile to her lips.

"But he didn't. Things were hard, love, but that didn't hamper the fact that we were the best possible person for the other," she said softly, "when I lost him to smallpox, it was like a part of me had been torn right out. Terrible times. Over three hundred years without him now, but regardless of any of it, I wouldn't have it taken back."

 

Mycroft's brows furrowed, and Mrs. Hudson squeezed his fingers in response.

"I think I know your problem, love," she offered softly, "Not wanting to turn, but so uncertain of a life after his death, right?"

"I..." Mycroft paused, thoughts pressing into his mind and leaving an ache in his chest, "Perhaps, yes... If you had have been sired prior to his death, would you have done it?"

She sat in thought for a few moments, before shaking her head.

"Knowing as I know now, no," she reasoned, "He'd not have liked the permanence of this. I have no concerns with it, but definitely not his style. If he'd have asked, yes, but it's not every day that that happens, is it?"

 

Her smile was almost mischievous as she squeezed his hand again, and Mycroft gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"Yes, I'm _terribly_ lucky," he drawled, "Don't you have something you ought to be doing?"

She swat his arm playfully, but took it as the offhanded thanks within the dismissal it was. She always knew exactly what he meant, regardless of his words.

 

Mycroft was left alone with his thoughts a while longer, before deciding to retire to bed, letting out a sigh at Sherlock's closed door down the hall. He resolved that regardless of decisions made, he'd deal with them further in the morning, starting with his man-child of a brother and a well earned apology from Mycroft himself.

 

* * *

 

The morning had been a tense affair. Sherlock was far from impressed with Mycroft, and didn't quite seem ready to listen to any apology that Mycroft had prepared. They'd walked to school in silence, Sherlock aggressively tapping away at his phone and very intently ignoring his brother beside him, even as they'd parted ways and Mycroft wished him well for the day ahead. Mycroft had entered his own classroom, thoroughly distracted enough by Sherlock's petulance, that he barely registered John's presence until the boy was standing right before him.

 

"Hey Alex, you alright? Heard you got sent home crook yesterday," John asked, brows furrowed in concern, as Mycroft offered a small smile.

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm feeling much better," Mycroft offered, and John clapped him on the shoulder with a smile.

"Good to hear. Did you want to maybe sit for lunch with Greg and me today?" He asked, and Mycroft politely shook his head.

"Thank you for the offer, but I often have lunch with my brother, and--"

"All good," a familiar voice came from behind him, shortly before Gregory's arm was flung casually across his shoulders and Mycroft was met with a warm gaze, "The little guy can come too."

 

Mycroft was about to argue that he wasn't sure his brother would be comfortable with that, before determining that Sherlock would in fact be borderline ecstatic to have the chance to observe the teenagers of today in such a casual setting.

 

"Very well," Mycroft nodded, and Gregory shook him by the shoulder in his apparent enthusiasm.

"Great! Bit keen to learn a little more about the new kids, after all," Gregory wiggled his brows then, before John had physically detached him from Mycroft's shoulders with an exaggerated eye roll.

"Yeah, as a mate. Stop molesting every half decent bloke you come across, you twit," John chided, and Gregory shrugged, cheeky grin across his lips that was definitely doing something to liquify every bone in Mycroft's body.

"Alright, alright," Gregory placated John, elbowing the boy off of him, "We'll see you at lunch. You can grab your kid brother first, I guess. Meet at the courtyard by the library?"

Mycroft gave a nod, not trusting his voice, as he resolutely sat in his chair and opened his text book, vehemently avoiding eye contact with the two boys in the back corner of the room for the following two hours.

 

He was so very much in trouble.

 

* * *

 

Whatever grievances Sherlock may have had with Mycroft, he was still waiting in their usual spot, albeit reluctantly. Mycroft felt a pang of sadness over it, aware that it may very well have been that Sherlock was yet to form any friendships.

"You're late," the younger Holmes huffed, as Mycroft let out a small sigh.

"I do apologise. In any case, we have been invited to lunch with some of my classmates," Mycroft murmured, and the roiling annoyance along Sherlock's features evaporated in the blink of an eye, to be replaced with a near maniacal grin.

" _We_?" Sherlock made an attempt at passivene interest, and Mycroft rolled his eyes in affection.

"Yes. They're yet to realise how intolerable you are, I suppose."

"Oh this is _excellent_!" Sherlock enthused, "How personal do you suppose they'd allow me to be? Are they males? They tend to be more open about queries on sexual experience in particular. _Teenagers_ , Mycroft. This will be fascinating!"

Mycroft gave Sherlock a hard stare and the younger gave a hard done by sigh.

" _Fine_ , I'll... Tone it down," Sherlock huffed, before pulling a notepad out of his pocket and a pencil from his coat, "What kind of a diet do you think they may be on?"

 

Mycroft plucked the notepad from Sherlock's hand in a blink of an eye and stuffed it into his own pocket, much to the disgruntled annoyance of the younger, before fixing Sherlock with another pointed look. Sherlock begrudgingly admitted defeat, before trudging along beside Mycroft to the courtyard.

 

When they arrived, Mycroft almost faltered in his step as Gregory turned to face them mid-laugh and fixed Mycroft with one of those delightfully open grins.

"Alex! Was wondering if you'd stood us up," he teased, and Mycroft gave a small smile, Sherlock smirking beside him.

"William Hudson," Sherlock offered politely, sticking out a hand, which Gregory shook firmly with a smile, "You must be the poor souls somehow involved with my brother."

Gregory laughed in startled amusement, before shaking his head.

"I wouldn't put it that way. I'm Greg, this is John," Gregory gestured at John beside him, who seemed amused by Sherlock's introduction, "We're Alex's friends."

"Yes, but WHY?" Sherlock asked in all seriousness, and John snorted as Gregory merely gaped in his amusement.

"Don't pay him any mind. He has a tendency for mischief," Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a warning gaze, who merely smirked before sitting on the bench across from the teens.

"As does Alex, don't worry," Sherlock commented airily, his gaze fixed intently on Gregory, who grinned cheekily at Mycroft in response as the elder sat beside his brother.

"Is that so?" He teased, and Mycroft had to resist every urge within him to murder his beloved baby brother in cold blood.

 

After introductions (if they could be considered as much) were out of the way, lunch was a surprisingly pleasant affair. Sherlock, much to Mycroft's relief, seemed to be well received by his new friends, and he was particularly pleased when he and John got into a rather intense discussion about medicine. Apparently, John was planning on studying to be a doctor, and Sherlock, who had (illegally) poked and prodded at more dead and dying bodies than Mycroft could stomach the thought of, was thrilled to be able to discuss anatomy without the usual rebuttal that Mycroft often provided.

 

Gregory nudged his knee with his own then, drawing Mycroft's attention, as the boy smiled easily and chewed languidly on his food.

"So... How you finding it here so far?" Gregory asked, and Mycroft offered a small smile.

"Tolerable..." Mycroft replied, and Gregory snorted as he swallowed his mouthful.

"I suppose that's something," he shrugged, "In all fairness though, you and William here seem a bit beyond the need of the schooling system. I've never met a kid so engrossed with biology before and that's been so well spoken to boot, or a dude that was multilingual to the extent you are. Not to mention I've snuck a look at your maths work before and you were laying down equations better than the teacher."

"We were, uh, homeschooled for quite some time," Mycroft explained, fidgeting slightly in his seat and causing Sherlock to instinctively jump to his aid.

"Homeschooled, tutored, and exceptionally well travelled," Sherlock explained easily, "We each have our weaknesses, however. Alexander is terrible with social studies, and as you can imagine, we're rather lacking at sporting finesse."

John laughed again at this, which Sherlock seemed pleased by, and Gregory shrugged.

 

"Hey, not saying it's a bad thing. I'm glad you're both here regardless," he grinned, "You're probably the most interesting people I've met."

"What am I, chopped liver?" John huffed, and Sherlock immediately shook his head, much to Mycroft's amusement.

 

Lunch was over far too quickly, and Sherlock reluctantly peeled himself away from the trio, grumbling his way back to class as Mycroft looked on in fond amusement. It seemed Sherlock had taken a shining to the teenagers, which Mycroft likely ought to have expected.

"That is one firecracker of a kid," Gregory laughed as they went to collect their books from their lockers, "I can imagine he's a handful at times."

"That's one way to put it, yes," Mycroft mused, and John chuckled.

"He's definitely a character. Sharp as a tack, too," John shook his head, smiling to himself, "He's got some interesting ideas. Real scientific head on his shoulders."

Mycroft hummed in agreement, as the three of them headed to class and took seats together for another hour or so of historical insight from Mrs. Morris. Much to the collective horror of the class, she assigned them a project on World War One, despite them only having had three classes on the subject so far.

 

"Active research is one of the ways that some people prefer to learn," she explained to the sounds of protest.

"Then let _them_ do the project, and let the rest of us just do the class work," Gregory groaned, much to the amusement of a majority of his peers.

"God forbid you commit to any real work, Greg," Mrs. Morris frowned, and Gregory merely gave her a charming grin, which seemed to dig him far enough out of trouble to get her to continue her talk.

 

She gave them permission to work in groups of three, and both John and Gregory instantly latched on to the idea of kidnapping Mycroft as project co-ordinator. By the end of the day, Gregory was losing his calm over said project, and John was building a tower out of the pencils from his case.

"We _do_ have until the end of the week," Mycroft offered, and Gregory lifted his head from where he had been resting it on his desk. "Yes, but no other history classes until it's due," Greg huffed, "We can't work on it at my place, and Harry hates me enough that it'll be a nightmare to try and get it done at John's."

The latter shrugged apologetically, and Greg let his head drop to his desk once again.

 

"I do have a home, I hope you're aware," Mycroft offered dryly, and Gregory's head snapped up once again.

"And your Aunt would be cool with it?" Gregory pressed, hope in his eyes.

"Certainly," Mycroft nodded, and John grinned.

"Tonight then?" He asked, and Mycroft's mind immediately raced to the thought of either of his new friends stumbling across the bags of blood in the fridge or the lack of food in the cupboards.

"...Tomorrow would suit much better," he offered, and Gregory beamed, causing that shiver of heat to ripple through Mycroft once again.

"Alex, you're the best, I swear it," Gregory grinned, clapping the vampire on the back.

 

As they packed up and waited for the bell, Mycroft wondered if inviting guests into a vampire nest was possibly one of the worst ideas he'd had.

 

* * *

 

As Sherlock stared down what felt like the hundredth person in the last fifteen minutes, Mycroft made the realisation that no, THIS was the worst idea he'd had.

 

He'd decided as soon as they'd gotten home, that an impromptu grocery trip was in order. Sherlock had insisted on coming along, Mycroft had reluctantly agreed, and had spent every minute since thoroughly regretting that decision. Sherlock, filled to the brim with curiosity, was insisting on touching everything and had spent the last five minutes studying varying ingredients between three different pasta sauces.

"Look at the amount of preservatives, Mycroft," Sherlock mused, shaking the jar in his hand, "It's no wonder they live so much longer these days."

"You know full well that isn't how it works," Mycroft drawled, "Put it down. I don't want to be here any longer than necessary."

 

They finished their trip in a painful forty five minutes, and as they made their way through the checkout, a smell hit Mycroft's senses and jolted him to heightened awareness in a heartbeat. Seeing Sherlock stiffen beside him was all the indication he needed to know that his brother had smelled it too. As casually as he could muster, he shifted his gaze slowly across the store, and his heart caught in his throat as his concerns were confirmed. He just managed to catch the gaze of the familiar figure, a smirk licking at their lips before they exited the shop, and there was definitely acknowledgment within those piercing eyes.

 

"Mycroft..." Sherlock breathed, eyes fixed on where their blood-sibling had just departed, and Mycroft merely placed a calming hand on his brother's shoulder as the cashier continued with her task.

"It doesn't mean anything, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock's frown was enough to let Mycroft know that his brother didn't believe it for a second.

 

It was extremely rare for a vampire to leave their family nest, but when Magnussen had been hunted and killed, right when the family base was weakest, Mycroft had packed Sherlock up and done just that. Resentment was an understatement when it came to how many of their blood-siblings had felt at Mycroft's supposed betrayal. Needless to say, Mycroft was not the most popular vampire within that circle. To see one of their blood-siblings for the first time in over a century was jarring, to say the least.

 

It had to have meant something, but of what, Mycroft wasn't sure just yet. He fished his wallet out of his coat and handed over notes to the cashier, patiently waiting for his change as Sherlock gathered what bags he thought were suitable enough for a typical ten year old and stood idly by while Mycroft grabbed the rest. They walked in silence back home, Sherlock deep in thought but obviously on high alert, his pupils wide and his fingers curled far tighter than necessary around the bag handles.

 

When they stepped back inside the comfort of their home, Mrs. Hudson was by their side in an instant.

"Mycroft, is everything alright?" She fussed, "You both look terrible. Has something happened?"

"Victor was at the grocery store," Mycroft offered calmly, beginning to place groceries in the fridge and cupboards in a somewhat mechanical process, "I don't expect it to be an issue, so I'd ask you both not to worry."

"And who exactly are you trying to fool?" Sherlock butted in, voice soft and serious, "Us, or yourself? There's significance behind it, whatever that significance may be, and I doubt it will be terribly too long before we find out."

"And we shall cross that bridge when we reach it," Mycroft replied, pulling blood bags from the fridge and handing them to Mrs. Hudson to put away in the basement fridge instead, "You, more than anybody, should know how Victor operates. If he were there to kill us, he'd have done so. He has little concern for the public eye."

 

Sherlock, as stubborn as he often was, begrudgingly let the topic drop and disappeared to his bedroom for what Mycroft hoped was a standard sulk and not a session of plotting. He reminded himself to check in on him shortly, before his phone chimed from the kitchen bench and he furrowed his brows. Nobody aside from Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had his number, and with one doing her assigned duties, and the other sulking, he was hard pressed to see why either would be texting. He picked it up and unlocked it, to see a message he'd been far from expecting, but nonetheless pleased to receive.

 

'Hey mate, it's Greg. How's your evening? Bored out of my brains'

 

He hesitantly tapped out his reply and hit send, staring down at the status bar until it was fired off into the void.

'Gregory? I don't recall giving you my number?'

There was a long minute of silence, before the phone chimed once again and Mycroft scrabbled to read it.

'Ahhhh yeah. About that. Sherlock gave to John n John gave to me. Hope you don't mind..?'

Mycroft glared at the ceiling in the rough direction of where he knew Sherlock was currently positioned, before tapping out his reply.

'He shouldn't have, but it's quite alright. My evening is going well.'

 

The chime was another few moments later, and Mycroft felt that familiar rush of... Something... as he read the newest message.

'I'm glad he did in any case. ;) if you're as bored as I am, Charlie and the chocolate factory is on channel 6. Classic.'

'I'm afraid I wouldn't know.'

'Sorry, what? You can't tell me you haven't actually seen it?'

 

That was how Mycroft ended up perched on his chair, watching a frankly absurd movie and receiving running commentary from Gregory ('gloop kid is gross.', 'I'd beat Mike's arse if he were my kid', 'got a favourite chocolate bar?') in the process. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, and loathe as he was to admit it, Gregory's constant texts definitely improved the experience.

 

By the time the movie was done, Mycroft was decidedly lethargic and told Gregory as much.

'Im off to bed anyway. Catch you at school?' Came the reply, and Mycroft confirmed that would indeed be the case, before crawling into bed with the hint of a smile ghosting along his lips.

 

He was a teenager by vessel alone, and realistically, he knew it was ridiculous to feel as... Giddy... As he did, but he begrudgingly accepted it as fact regardless, before allowing sleep to claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been uber sick, sorry. Also, this may be a bit sub par, for the exact same reason. Sozmybadily.

Sherlock had spent a majority of his morning pointedly avoiding his older brother, and Mycroft couldn't blame him. He could feel the tension rolling off of his own shoulders, a mixture of anxiety of the day ahead, annoyance at Sherlock for giving out his details without permission, and agitation over the developing circumstances with Victor. Overall, it left Mycroft tense and brooding, sending every signal to the other two vampires in the house to steer clear or risk potential injury. He wasn't often in such a dark mood, but they knew the dangers of them when they arrived.

 

"Mycroft dear?" Mrs. Hudson offered quietly, hovering in the doorway, as he turned a sharp gaze in her direction. She shifted on her feet, wringing the cleaning cloth in her hand and offering a cautious smile.

"You'll need to be heading off shortly, and I'm yet to have seen your brother," she explained softly, as Mycroft's annoyance hitched just that little bit higher.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

 

The elder Holmes cleared his throat, flexing his fingers briefly, before resting his palms flat against his thighs as he crossed his ankles and reclined slightly in his chair.

"Sherlock," he spoke calmly, but with every ounce of demand that he could muster. He heard a clatter upstairs, knowing that his brother had picked up on his mental influence and had likely frozen in place, debating his next move.

"Do NOT keep me waiting," Mycroft warned, voice low and sharp, and with a rush of air, Sherlock was standing before him in his pyjamas, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, then the coffee table, the bookcase; pretty much everywhere but Mycroft.

 

Mycroft pointedly checked his watch, aware that despite his efforts at avoiding eye contact, Sherlock would catalogue the gesture.

"You have five minutes. Get ready," Mycroft said, voice clipped and tight, and Sherlock gave a small nod, before disappearing upstairs. Mrs. Hudson tutted from the doorway as she let out a sigh.

"He's constantly pushing his boundaries, that man," she frowned, and Mycroft felt a small smile tug at his lips unbidden, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as he did so.

 

When cowed, Sherlock was every part the image of a ten year old being scolded, and it tugged at a bitter-sweet nostalgia from centuries prior, when the younger Holmes would be caught experimenting on insects by a mortified handmaiden and brought before their parents. They had no royal lineage, but their family's wealth had come with expectations that the boys were meant to follow, and even back then, Sherlock had struggled to behave appropriately.

 

Mycroft let out a quiet sigh, more of his tension bleeding away, and Mrs. Hudson seemed comfortable enough to now sit across from the elder Holmes with a soft smile.

"Oh Mycroft," she murmured, placing a hand on his knee, "Everything will be alright. You just worry about school. I'll make sure to have something prepared for when Gregory and John stop in, and I'll see what I can find out about Victor."

Mycroft said nothing, merely patting Mrs. Hudson's hand before standing and straightening his tie.

 

Mrs. Hudson was, quite possibly, his favourite regret.

 

Sherlock was dressed and ready with a minute to spare, and upon seeing that Mycroft's mood had softened, took that as his queue to start chattering as they headed out their door and on their way to school. Mycroft zoned out for the most part, making non-committal sounds on occasion and sorting through his own thoughts. By the time he did pay attention, he was wishing that he had have blocked the conversation out completely.

 

"...In any case, my own experimentation proved that the rats' true decomposition rate, elements factored in accordingly, is much faster than what the police report states," Sherlock huffed, "If they'd just let me work on the case directly..."

"I'm going to resolutely pretend we are not having this conversation on decomposition before nine of a morning," Mycroft said warningly, "And I am also going to pretend that you have not been experimenting on rats, nor have you been snooping around police files. Again."

 

"That may be for the best..." Sherlock at least had the good grace to pretend to be remorseful, although Mycroft expected that was more an indication of his concern at having convicted himself of his misdeeds than anything else. They were quiet for a few minutes more, before Sherlock began speaking once again.

"Whilst I can appreciate your... Concerns... Over my handing out of your personal details," Sherlock hesitated, as Mycroft fixed him with a stern gaze, "I assume your texting session with Greg was beneficial?"

 

Mycroft didn't bother asking how Sherlock knew he'd been speaking to Gregory; his little brother was often too smart for his own good.

"Beneficial enough, yes," Mycroft replied tersely, and Sherlock merely smirked as they entered the gates of the school and Gregory himself approached, cheeky smile and bright eyes fixed solely on Mycroft.

"Morning, sunshine," Gregory grinned, and Mycroft pointedly ignored Sherlock's snort of amusement from his side.

 

The noise seemed to draw Gregory's attention to the younger Holmes, before Gregory reached out a hand and ruffled the mass of curls atop Sherlock's head.

"Morning Will, how's it hanging?" Gregory asked, and Sherlock arched a brow in obvious puzzlement.

"...Well?" He replied slowly, earning himself another ruffle of his hair as Gregory laughed in response, "Where's John?"

"He's trying to cram in some studying in the library before the bell rings," Gregory shrugged, and Sherlock nodded, before making a beeline for the main building, and undoubtedly the library shortly after.

 

Mycroft watched him go with a restrained smirk along his lips, and barely registered Gregory's chuckle of amusement until the boy was speaking again.

"I'm pretty sure your brother might be a tad taken with John," Gregory mused, "It's a bit cute, I reckon. Not sure what John will think of it though."

Mycroft made a small noise of agreement and headed for his locker, side by side with Gregory.

 

They were a few spaces away from each other, and as Gregory placed his bag in his locker, he scratched at his wrist, treating Mycroft to another searing display of his own name across the younger's skin.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked cautiously, as Gregory scowled at the skin.

"It's my soul brand," Gregory shrugged, "Been itching like mad the past couple of days. John keeps rattling off some superstitious bullshit, saying that it means my soul-bound must be somewhere near, but I highly doubt it."

 

Mycroft tightened his grip around his books, his throat dry as he attempted to be as casual as he could.

"And why is that?" He asked, and Gregory rolled his sleeve up, grinning as he held it out in Mycroft's direction with a raised brow.

"Not often you meet a guy called Mycroft," Gregory shrugged, grinning cheekily, as Mycroft's heart caught in his chest. The sound of his name leaving Gregory's lips for the first time was absolutely devastating to his system, and he dropped his binder in the short circuiting of his brain that followed shortly after the sizzle that raced through his spine hit him.

Greg stooped immediately and picked it up, a concerned look thrown in Mycroft's direction.   
“Are _you_ alright Alex?” He asked, handing over the binder as Mycroft pointedly avoided any contact, even accidental.   
“Yes, yes... I'm... I'm fine,” He rasped, and Gregory reached a hand out and clapped a hand onto Mycroft's shoulder, the vampire seizing up immediately and causing Gregory to drop his hand in defeat.   
“Sorry, I'm guessing you probably have had a run in with a Mycroft in the past or something?” Gregory pressed, and Mycroft gave a terse nod as he pulled his books to his chest.   
“You could say that, yes,” He murmured, and Gregory gave him a puzzled expression, before looking past Mycroft's shoulder and offering a wide grin. 

  
“Geez, you're pushing your luck for time, John,” Gregory teased, as John approached his locker, offering a tight lipped smile as he glanced at his watch.   
“No kidding. I got, uh, distracted,” John shrugged, as Sherlock trotted up to the three older boys with a quiet smile along his face. It slipped from his features, however, as he eyed Mycroft off with puzzled concern. It was apparent he had picked up on the lingering stress signals that Mycroft was undoubtedly emitting, as he flicked a suspicious gaze in Gregory's direction. Mycroft gave a minuscule shake of his head, and Sherlock looked as if he were going to press further, before Mycroft sent a wave of influence between them, sharp and warning, and the younger Holmes immediately cowed.

“You should get to class, William,” Mycroft offered quietly, and Sherlock made a small sound of agreement, offering a brief nod in John's direction as the older boy grinned back and nodded in return.  
“I'll see you after school,” John reassured, and Sherlock's small smile returned as he strode away, his step decidedly... springy. Mycroft smiled to himself, before turning a raised brow to John, who shrugged in response.  
“Your brother's a character. It's like he's an adult stuck in a pint sized package,” John laughed, and Gregory snorted.  
“I'm pretty sure he's crushing on you, John,” Gregory teased, and John rolled his eyes.  
“I think that he just likes being treated as a grown up,” John shrugged, “He's a bright kid and he probably doesn't get spoken to as anything other than a ten year old.”  
Mycroft nodded, watching Sherlock disappear into his classroom with some of his fellow classmates, and inwardly, his respect for John sky-rocketed. The teenager was treating Sherlock as he'd longed to be treated for centuries, by someone other than his blood siblings and Mycroft himself, and he was doing so with no knowledge of what Sherlock was.  
  
Perhaps humans still had it in them to surprise the elder Holmes after all.   
  
The bell rang then, signalling the dreary start to their institutionalised learning, and Gregory let out a hard done by sigh as he dragged his feet towards their homeroom and shuffled his books impatiently in his arms.   
“Thank Christ it's a short day,” Gregory huffed, and John rolled his eyes.   
“Do you think you can go _one_ day, just one, where you _don't_ bitch about everything?” John jeered, and Gregory raised a hand to tap on his lip in thought, his face screwing up briefly, before turning back to John with a cheeky grin.   
“Nope,” He replied, and John punched him square in the arm as Gregory snorted and elbowed the other boy back. The easy friendship that the pair held was a heartening thing to witness, and Mycroft considered himself privileged to have come across the pair as they were. He wondered briefly how they came to have such an easygoing demeanour between them, but before he could dwell too long, classes had started and names were taken for roll. After that, it was a bustle to the next class (Double French, which John was disgruntled to not be sitting in on with them), before the lunch bell finally granted them some relief. 

Gregory and John had rugby practice, which Sherlock was supremely unimpressed with, and so, the two brothers sat in the courtyard and quietly pretended to enjoy the tasteless food they ingested. Mycroft, however, couldn't possibly let the opportunity to tease his brother go to waste.   
“You're getting along excellently with John, I've noticed,” Mycroft remarked airily, as Sherlock tensed beside him and took a rather aggressive bite from his sandwich.   
“Your implications, as is the norm, are both unwelcome and unwarranted,” Sherlock replied, spraying crumbs everywhere and seemingly taking delight in Mycroft's disgust as the elder dusted off his knees.  
“He does seem to think quite highly of you in return,” Mycroft commented as casually as he could, “It seems he considers you as an equal. Perhaps even a friend.”   
  
Sherlock stopped chewing and stared thoughtfully at the ground at his feet.   
“A... friend?” Sherlock pressed quietly, and Mycroft offered a soft sound of confirmation, as Sherlock's fingers twitched just slightly against his bread. He came to his senses quite quickly, however, a mask of indifference plastered across his features as he scoffed.  
“Ridiculous. Besides, friendships are inconvenient. John is intelligent with sound morals, I am sure he'd make an excellent business partner,” Sherlock nodded, before returning to his half eaten sandwiches, their crusts having already been cut off by Mrs. Hudson at the younger's request.

Despite their somewhat turbulent relationship, and Sherlock's insistence that Mycroft was out to ruin his life, Mycroft cared very much for his baby brother. Seeing his reaction and immediate dismissal of the idea of somebody willingly decide to be his friend was almost more than the elder Holmes could bare. For Sherlock to believe that it was improbable, impossible, irrelevant, for him to have found a connection, a _friendship_ with another individual? It tugged at emotions Mycroft wasn't sure he'd still had.   
“You're allowed happiness, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, as his brother abruptly stood and dusted crumbs from his shirt and tie, face blank as he flicked an empty smirk Mycroft's way.   
“Oh, a lifetime of it, Mycroft,” Sherlock nodded, “But a mortal one, and then a further eternity of drivel. Excellent point. Well done on offering such a poignant reminder.”  
Mycroft bit back the urge to roll his eyes, and Sherlock merely turned on his heel and headed to class with nay a further word. Mycroft let out a weary sigh, before deciding he ought to head to his lockers early, not wanting to be outside any longer than necessary or risk further interaction with his peers.   
  
His efforts were futile, however, as he approached his locker only to find somebody already waiting. The girl before him threw him a quick glance, before tapping away at her phone, and Mycroft dragged his memory for the recollection of her introduction.   
“Anthea,” She offered without his having asked, and he offered a small nod of acknowledgement, which she smiled just slightly at in return.  
“You're in front of my locker, I'm afraid,” Mycroft offered quietly, and she clicked the lock button on her phone, slipping it into her pocket, before turning her gaze to meet his.   
“Yes I am,” She replied, and Mycroft felt a little unease trickle through him, as her gaze continued to pierce through him.   
“Can I... help you?” He asked, and she shook her head, stepping aside just enough to let him into his locker.   
“No, it's quite alright,” She smiled softly again, before she pulled her phone out and began fiddling with it once more, “You're very intelligent.”  
“Thank you,” Mycroft replied politely, gathering his books, and Anthea made a small noise of acknowledgement, before tucking her phone into her pocket once again.   
  
“I've got to head to class, but it was nice chatting,” Anthea offered, and Mycroft nodded, as she shifted the bag on her back slightly and tossed her hair over her shoulder.   
“I imagine I will see you around,” Mycroft offered a polite smile, and she nodded, turning and heading for her class as the bell rang.   
“Enjoy your day, Mycroft,” She smiled over her shoulder and he turned to close his locker, managing to get the lock done up and his books balanced in his arms, before her words rattled to his core.   
  
She'd called him by his real name.   
  
He looked wildly around, but it was as if she'd evaporated into thin air, his stomach leaden with a sick sense of unnerve, as his heart beat in his throat. His first instinct was to pull Sherlock to him to discuss this development further, but also in an indescribable urge to ensure he was safe. He decided that the best option, however, was to merely speak to his brother's teacher and ask to have him pulled from class for an urgent family discussion. He was certain he could be charming enough for it to work, and he shoved his books back into his locker before immediately heading for Sherlock's classroom, his eyes sharp and his instincts sharper as he prowled the halls.   
  
When he did reach the door, he was tense and had to forcefully compose himself as he knocked on the painted surface. The teacher called for him to enter, and he did so quietly, Sherlock standing immediately as Mycroft stepped inside.   
“William, sit down,” The teacher sighed, and Sherlock fidgeted before reluctantly doing as he was asked, “Yes?”  
“Good afternoon, Miss. Sorry to interrupt your lesson, but I was wondering if I may have a word with my brother,” Mycroft explained, voice soft and smile open, “My aunt has text me and there's a minor family emergency that I'd like to discuss with him, if I may.”  
  
The teacher, a nervous looking flower of a thing, chewed on her lip briefly, before shaking her head.  
“I'm sorry, but you'll have to speak to the office and get him called away, or get a family member to call,” She offered apologetically, and he inwardly swallowed back a curse before biting back a sigh and focussing his gaze on her and casting his influence.   
“I'm afraid that I must insist, Mrs. Hooper...” He offered softly, and her eyes glazed, blinking blearily.   
“I... yes, of course. Your brother is...?” She replied in a daze, and Mycroft flicked his gaze to Sherlock, who stood once again, “Oh, William. Yes, alright. Try not to be too long.”  
  
As soon as they'd left the classroom, Sherlock was all but glued to Mycroft's side with urgency in his eyes.   
“You influenced my _teacher_? What is it? What's happened?” He pressed, and Mycroft took him by the shoulders, forcing the younger to hold his gaze.   
“Somebody here knows who I am,” Mycroft murmured, “I was approached by her at my locker, and she called me by name. I'm not entirely sure of her extent of knowledge, but I can only ima-”  
“Anthea, I assume?” Sherlock interrupted, the urgency leaving his eyes and becoming swiftly replaced with amusement. Mycroft's surprise must have shown, because Sherlock snorted and gave off that smug sense of superiority he was so fond of exuding when he had the upper hand over his older brother.   
“She cornered me yesterday afternoon and began questioning me quite thoroughly,” Sherlock waved a hand airily, “She is more intelligent than I expected she may be. She advised me that she was aware of what we are, and was looking into the who. I may have made a threat towards her in response, but she certainly has a firm standing on what she wants.”   
  
Mycroft bit back the rolling annoyance that was all but crippling him as his grip on Sherlock's shoulders tightened.   
“ _What_ , pray tell, did you _tell_ her?” Mycroft asked, voice low and dangerous, and Sherlock shifted petulantly, the amusement slipping swiftly from his expression.   
“I told her nothing. I influenced her into sharing things with _me_ , however,” the younger Holmes explained, wriggling his way out of Mycroft's grasp, “She's not hostile. Rather, she is somewhat of a loyalist to our ways. Apparently her family has run as human assistants for generations. She said she could smell us from a mile away. Not literally, of course, but I imagine that our mannerisms are somewhat similar to othe-”  
“ _Sherlock_.”  
“Yes, fine, _fine_ ,” Sherlock huffed, waving a hand in dismissal, “The vampire that her family has been tending to has been... disposed of. She's merely looking to continue the legacy of her family by entering your service. Nothing sinister.”  
  
Mycroft may very well murder his brother by the end of the day.   
  
“Why did you not tell me this information any sooner?” Mycroft pressed, fangs extending beyond his control, and Sherlock cowed instantly.   
“I...” Sherlock swallowed thickly, his gaze shifting everywhere but Mycroft's face.   
“ _Sherlock_.”  
“We went to the grocery store immediately after school, my mind was otherwise occupied, and then...” Sherlock trailed off, and Mycroft let out a controlled sigh, closing his eyes as he vividly recalled Sherlock's expression of pure dread upon noticing Victor's presence. Sherlock was hard enough to keep focused on what he deemed unimportant or inconsequential at the best of times, let alone when faced with such a jarring event. His brother's remorse was palpable in its severity, and he attempted to ease himself out of the agitated state of mind he had worked himself into, forcibly retracting his fangs. 

It wasn't unheard of for vampires to be approached by humans in the know from time to time, and ask if they could be of service. There were extensive mutual benefits in being the human assistant to a vampire, and it was a lucrative business which was usually conducted very much underground. He was not entirely trusting of Anthea, but Sherlock had seemed convinced of her intentions after having influenced her, so until Mycroft had the chance to speak to her again himself, he had little choice but to accept that her threat level was not dire nor immediate. He remained wary, but that was an integral part of who Mycroft was at his very core, let alone as a vampire under threat. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the stretching silence as Mycroft worked through the situation in his mind, and much to Mycroft's shock, two words left Sherlock's mouth that he had not bore witness to in decades.   
  
“I apologise,” Sherlock murmured quietly, his gaze still not meeting his older brother's, “I understand that this must have been... disconcerting for you. I hadn't intended for you to worry, on top of the concerns you are already bearing.”

If Mycroft had any harsh words still left within his mouth, they dissipated in a heartbeat on Sherlock's reluctant admission of guilt, and he closed his eyes and let out a shaky exhale.   
“You... need to return to class. I ought to do the same,” Mycroft murmured, and Sherlock nodded, turning and reaching for the handle.   
“And Sherlock?” Mycroft pressed, his little brother hesitating on the threshold and finally meeting Mycroft's eyes with a silver grey gaze of his own, “Please do ensure this does not happen again?”  
Sherlock nodded silently, before turning back and re-entering his class room. Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose just briefly, before turning and heading for his locker, thoughts of Anthea circling his mind.   
  
He wasn't overly sure he could afford the risk of leading a human in the know back to his family nest. He'd heard too many horror stories of vampires getting comfortable with humans, and then, when they were most vulnerable, being slaughtered in their sleep. Considering that her family's previous vampire had met their end as well, Mycroft wasn't sure just how trustworthy this Anthea figure was.

Sherlock, however, was exceptionally good at deductions. Not as good as Mycroft, of course, but far more than adequate. The elder Holmes puzzled the thought over and over in his mind, that surely, _surely_ Sherlock was intelligent enough to have been able to read a mere mortal? Influence or not, his intuition was strong, and Mycroft's curiousity towards his female classmate only grew in its intensity. He'd be speaking to Mrs. Hudson later tonight and getting her to run a complete background check on the girl. It certainly wouldn't hurt to know what he was getting into, whether with servant or threat.   
  
As he approached his locker, he was surprised to find John and Gregory both grabbing their books also. In turn, they also seemed quite surprised at the sight of him.  
“Alex? What are you doing here?” John frowned in concern, “Is everything alright? Why aren't you in class?”  
“Give him a chance to answer your bloody questions,” Gregory snorted, swatting at his friend with his text book, John flushing slightly as he rolled his eyes.   
“I had to deal with a small matter that required speaking to William,” Mycroft explained, “As far as I know, the teacher isn't even aware that I am still on school grounds.”  
“Mate, you didn't _tell_ them before you went?” Gregory frowned, exchanging a concerned glance with John, whose frown deepened.   
“You're likely to be in a world of trouble,” John nodded solemnly, “Mister Orr is a complete and utter twat.”

  
“Well... why are you late?” Mycroft asked, and the pair of them held up identical slips, a grin forming along Gregory's lips.   
“Sometimes, by the grace of whatever bloody deity listens to my prayers, rugby practice goes over,” Gregory shrugged, tucking the slip back in his pocket, “These little slips are like golden spun freedom passes. Without one, I'm not sure how you'll go though.”  
Mycroft said nothing, closing his locker after grabbing his books and walking silently beside his friends.   
  
He considered questioning them about Anthea, but the pair were heavily engrossed in their own conversation, and Mycroft did not have the gall to interrupt, especially when Gregory's hands were waving around so animatedly, his eyes bright and his grin toothy. He very much enjoyed Gregory's presence at the best of times, but when the boy was so alive with energy and enthusiasm, those were undoubtedly his favourites so far. Mycroft's stomach did an odd little flip as he realised that he would have Gregory in his _house_ by the end of the afternoon, knowing that his entirely too enticing scent would linger for days afterwards. 

The vampire had never fed from a human other than Mrs. Hudson, never had any inclination to, and had never particular been too fond of the varying smells that the species produced in general. But Gregory? Gregory smelled  _divine._ The night previous, after texting his friend for so long, Mycroft's nostrils had flared with the ghosting memory of the boy's smell, and his fangs had  _ached_ . 

Mycroft almost tripped over his feet as he was walking then, as he realised that his fangs had extended at the mere thought, and resolutely ensured to keep them tucked behind his lips, even as he smiled at Gregory's enthusiasm and John's stubbornness. He willed them away, heat still curling through his body as Gregory's smell continued to waft towards him with every wave of the boy's hands. 

He sent a silent prayer to anything that may be listening that he managed to survive the day without making an absolute fool of himself in Gregory's presence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 4am, please forgive all errors. Greg visits the Holmes family home next chapter, and also, something else quite major. Just to make you all edgy. Ha! (Thanks for all the love so far though, holy shit, you're all wonderful.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was done and redone and... redone again, annnnnd... I still don't love it. Heh. In any case, have a little angst.

Their last class for the day seemed to drag, especially after Mycroft had received swift reprimand for his tardiness and spent the rest of the lesson pointedly reminding himself that it would be frowned upon for him to murder his teacher in cold blood. Anthea was mysteriously absent from class, and another one of the girls in the back of the room explained she had gone home due to a family concern, which Mycroft took in with interest. When the bell finally did ring, John and Gregory had left with wide grins, telling Mycroft they'd be at his home by four. Mycroft, having to wait for Sherlock to finish, waited in the courtyard for his little brother to have his recess break. Sherlock was unusually quiet, seemingly deep in thought, and replying to Mycroft only when necessary as he chewed idly on a carrot stick and screwed up his nose in distaste.  
“These taste different,” He mused, offering the stick to Mycroft, who raised a brow.  
“Did you expect any different?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in impatience as he waved the stick at Mycroft again.  
“All food may taste like ash now, but there are differing flavours of ash, you could say,” Sherlock explained, as Mycroft caved and plucked the carrot from his brother's extended hand. Loathe as he was to admit it, yes, carrots tasted differently from what he could recall.  
  
Sherlock held another stick to his nose and inhaled deeply, his head tilted slightly as he closed his eyes and seemed to race through variances in kind. Mycroft watched with a sense of amusement, as Sherlock shook his head minutely, before his eyes tightened further. After six hundred years of constant use, his mind palace was exceptionally sharp, and he had learned to categorise chemicals upon chemicals by mere smell alone. The younger Holmes' eyes snapped open then, a breathy 'oh!' escaping his lips as he grinned at Mycroft.  
“Genetically _engineered_ ,” He breathed, “Mycroft, they're engineering their _food_.”  
Mycroft plucked another stick from Sherlock's lunchbox and stared at it with interest, morbid fascination swirling through his mind. The carrot looked much as a carrot should, but the taste and the smell was just slightly... different to what he could recall. Humans truly were interesting creatures.

 

The discovery seemed to be enough to perk Sherlock from whatever his previous thoughts had been, and he chattered away for the rest of his break about his theories on human diets and their abilities to surprise even the usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes. By the time the bell went for Sherlock's next class, the younger had taken down a few pages of notes in his notepad, and barely acknowledged Mycroft's reminder to not be too long meeting him after the bell had rung. 

 

To kill a little time waiting for the younger to finish his school day, Mycroft retreated to the library and pulled a random book from the shelves, curling up in a corner as he devoured page after page in silence. His peers seemed to avoid his corner, of which he was grateful, and he only received a polite smile from the librarian on the few occasions where he caught Mycroft's eye. He remained undisturbed for a solid half an hour, before a shadow was cast over his book, and he looked up to find Monsieur Anderson standing before him.   
“Alexander, I thought you'd be home,” The teacher offered with a small smile, which Mycroft replied politely with.  
“I'm waiting for my brother to finish his classes,” He explained, “I thought you'd be teaching?”  
“I have a free period as well, just getting some photocopying done. You have a brother?” Monsieur Anderson asked, shuffling the books in his arms as he shifted on his feet.

  
“Yes, his name is William,” Mycroft offered, and a look of recognition flashed across the teacher's face. 

“Ah, I've heard about him. A young lad, yes? Ten or so?” Monsieur Anderson asked, and Mycroft nodded, “He continues to impress his teachers. They speak of him highly in the staff room. Exceptionally bright boy, if a little anti-social. Mrs. Hooper certainly things he's a delight to teach. I ought to have known you were related.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft smiled tightly again, a knot of worry settling in his stomach, “I hadn't realised he was drawing such praise and attention.”  
“You both are,” Monsieur Anderson smiled, “Quickly becoming the pride of the school, and you've not even been here a week. Keep it up.”  
“Thank you, sir.”

“I better get this work done. Enjoy your afternoon,” Monsieur Anderson nodded, and Mycroft offered the same in return as his teacher turned on his heel and walked away.

 

Mycroft frowned down at the pages of his book and furrowed his brows. His intentions in having Sherlock come to school were certainly not to gain a reputation. The more high profile they became within a community, the higher the likeliness of being exposed. He began to think that perhaps it wasn't his brightest idea after all, and a sick feeling sat leaden in his stomach. He thought to Sherlock's behaviour over the past week, however, and conflict tore at him in many ways. His brother had been increasingly happier, and he'd even found himself in the tentative holds of a new friendship. And their coming here had also resulted in the discovery of  _Gregory Lestrade_ . Mycroft let out a soft sigh and closed his book, knowing there was no point in trying to concentrate further.  


There was a lot to think about. Too  _much_ to think about. Sherlock had started a friendship with John, but how long could it last? It would take a year, maybe two, before John became aware that Sherlock did not age. The same applied to Mycroft. Relationships, friendships, no matter how intense they had been, were always fleeting in their world. Not only that, but by becoming close with human beings, Mycroft had compromised his nest. Once the suspicions began to rise, they would have to leave school, leave their home, leave  _Gregory_ . The thought left a lump tight in Mycroft's throat, and ridiculous as he knew it was, he was well aware that it had only been a week and he was very much dreading the time that things would begin to collapse on the tentative nook that they had built their lives into. 

 

His thoughts were pulled from him as the bell rang, and he stood, abruptly aware that he had drifted off into his musings for far longer than intended. He inwardly groaned as he pictured the sight a disgruntled and decidedly smug Sherlock would make when it was Mycroft who was late to meet up after school, despite his warning to Sherlock to not do the same. As he approached his locker, his mental image was brought to life in technicolour, as Sherlock raised a critical brow at him, leaning casually against the metallic surface behind him, the very picture of boredom. Mycroft watched as a girl from Sherlock's class shyly approached the younger Holmes and supposedly wished him a goodbye, Sherlock offering a polite smile as he nodded and wished her well. As soon as she was away from him, however, his face slipped back to boredom, and Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. Sherlock was excellent at mimicry, and he knew how to appease the social interactions expected of him, but it often meant he rarely actually connected with other vampires or people themselves. 

 

“You're late,” Sherlock remarked airily, as Mycroft opened his locker and grabbed his backpack and his necessary supplies for the project they were completing tonight. 

“A gentleman is never late, he arrives precisely when he means to,” Mycroft replied, and Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

“Considering you're not a gentleman, that's a somewhat redundant statement,” Sherlock jeered, and Mycroft raised a brow, before rolling his eyes and closing his locker, heading for the exit with Sherlock right on his heels. 

“And I'm certain you're aware of what being a gentleman entails, after all?” Mycroft asked dryly, and a smirk graced Sherlock's lips.  
“Mind your Ps and Qs, be chivalrous, love your neighbour, and ensure that should you love them particularly so, you fuck them regularly and _thoroughly_ ,” Sherlock replied swiftly, and Mycroft snorted in stunned amusement, before they both tensed as a shocked ' _William!'_ cut through the air. It seemed Mrs. Hooper had been walking behind them on her way to the staff room, and judging by Sherlock's fleeting smirk in Mycroft's direction, he'd been very aware of the fact. 

 

Ever the excellent actor, however, Sherlock's lower lip trembled and the smirk slipped from his mouth just as Mrs. Hooper rounded on them. 

“I... I'm sorry Mrs. Hooper!” Sherlock sniffled, tears welling and falling from his eyes with an impressive speed, “Alexander has told me not to swear, but I'd heard the line on tv and I thought it was funny and...”

“We don't speak like that here, William,” Mrs. Hooper chided quietly, but Mycroft could see her softening as Sherlock sniffled away, twisting the bottom of his shirt between his hands and looking up at her with a doe eyed expression of distress. She tutted and reached into her pocket for a packet of tissues, handing one to the younger Holmes as he blew his nose and wiped at his eyes.

 

“I can tell you didn't mean it,” She smiled softly, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder as he offered a shaky smile in return, “Try and make sure you don't let anyone else hear you say things like that though, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, and Mrs. Hooper stood straight from where she'd been stooping to Sherlock's level, and offered a disapproving gaze in Mycroft's direction. 

“It was Alexander, yes? Well I... I know he said that you discourage his behaviour in this manner, but we don't accept that kind of language in our school,” She offered tightly, “Please ensure he isn't exposed to this sort of language at home, or I'll have to call your guardian.”

“Yes ma'am,” Mycroft nodded solemnly, as Mrs. Hooper nodded, offering another fleeting smile Sherlock's way, before continuing her journey to the staff room. 

 

Once she'd disappeared, Mycroft glared at Sherlock, who snorted in apparent delight and smirked with no reserve. 

“What was that, exactly?” Mycroft ground out, and Sherlock lifted one of his shoulders in a lazy half-shrug. 

“Proof that you didn't really need to use your influence over my teacher earlier,” Sherlock mused, “You're getting rusty with your charm, brother dear.”

“If I had those sodding great big eyes and that moptop that you call hair, I'd have more charm than I'd know what to do with,” Mycroft groused, and he swat at Sherlock as the younger made a rather rude comment about the elder's appearance, and the two spent a majority of their trip home caught up in light hearted insults and a battle of wit. They returned home in light spirits, and Mrs. Hudson was waiting with a smile on her lips, taking their coats as the pair continued to bicker. Sherlock zipped upstairs to dump his bag, before disappearing in a gust of air before Mycroft could even return his last jeer, and the older Holmes rolled his eyes as Mrs. Hudson chuckled. 

 

“Welcome home, Mycroft dear,” she smiled, and he offered her one in return, as she held out an envelope for him, “This is the only information I could find on Victor. There isn't too much, but as far as I can see, he's in the area on his own.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft frowned at the envelope as he quickly browsed its contents, “It's... strange, but acceptable. In any case, I'm afraid I need to ask for further assistance.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson nodded, expression serious, “What is it?”

“I need you to find out more about an Anthea Bainbridge and her family,” Mycroft explained, “Allegedly they come from a long line of human assistants. I need to know what happened to the family's vampire, and anything else you can come up with.”

“Certainly, I'll get onto it this evening,” She explained, “Your friends are expected any minute, after all.”

Mycroft's heart seized in his chest as he flicked his gaze to the clock in alarm. Apparently Sherlock and Mycroft's banter had been more relaxed than he'd realised and their return home longer than Mycroft had expected. It was three fifty five.

 

Mycroft rushed to his room, rummaging through his closet as he vaguely became aware of Sherlock propping himself against the door with apparent amusement.

“It's hardly a date, Mycroft,” Sherlock mused, as Mycroft shot him a glare, Sherlock's smirk only growing wider in response as he slurped noisily at a blood bag.

“Irrelevant,” Mycroft snapped, “Make yourself useful and make sure there's nothing incriminating laying about. And get rid of that _bag_.”

Sherlock petulantly rolled his eyes, before doing as he was asked anyway and disappearing in a rustle of fabric. Mycroft let out a controlled breath, before settling on a cardigan and jeans, not his preferred attire, but enough like a well to do teenager that Gregory and John weren't likely to bat an eyelid. 

 

He ran a comb through his hair and hoped he didn't look too awful, before rushing downstairs and receiving a smile from Mrs. Hudson. 

“You look lovely, dear,” She reassured, flicking a stray strand of hair to the correct side of Mycroft's head, “Very smart.”

“And Sherlock?” Mycroft pressed. 

“I don't know where he is, sorry,” She frowned, and Mycroft's chest seized again as a knock sounded at the door. 

 

Sherlock appeared by his side in an instant at the sound, and gave a discreet nod, as he slunk into the lounge and Mrs. Hudson vanished into the kitchen. Mycroft thanked the gods for small mercies, before composing himself and opening the door with a polite smile. Gregory gave him a lingering appraisal, raising a brow as a sultry grin crept across his lips. The boy gave a whistle, and John, who was standing just behind him rolled his eyes, shoving Gregory out of the way as he stepped forward. 

“Hey Alex. You look good casual, is what he's implying,” John jeered, as Gregory slapped him over the back of the head, Mycroft stepping aside to let them in, as heat curled through Mycroft's veins.  
  
Gregory himself was looking delectable, his own legs clad in baggy jeans, sitting low on his hips. He was wearing a band t-shirt of some sort, accompanied by a well worn jacket, clearly a favourite, that clung nicely to his frame. John was wearing a pair of corduroy pants and a frankly disturbing jumper, but simply by looking comfortable, he had a certain appeal to him that Mycroft admired in passing. He imagine Sherlock may be pleased, in any case. He lead the pair of them into the lounge, where Sherlock was pretending to be absorbed by a book, before he glanced up and zeroed in on John in a heartbeat. Mycroft held back his smirk, John yet to notice Sherlock's attention as the teenager looked around and let out a low whistle. 

 

“I figured you guys were pretty well off, but I didn't realise you lived in a bloody _mansion_ ,” John breathed, and Gregory rolled his eyes, plopping himself down on the couch beside Sherlock, whose gaze was finally torn from John and settled on older boy instead, who grinned and ruffled the younger Holmes' hair. 

“Hey Will,” He grinned, and Sherlock offered a small, yet genuine smile. 

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock replied politely, before his attentions returned to John, “Hello John.”

“Hey William. Nice place you've got,” John smiled easily, and Sherlock sat up straighter, seemingly preening under the attention, much to Mycroft's amusement. 

“It's adequate, yes,” Sherlock replied, and Gregory snorted, grinning toothily. 

 

“Shouldn't you be doing homework?” Mycroft suggested, and Sherlock scowled at the book in his hands.

“Reading is considered a part of my homework,” Sherlock replied evasively, and Gregory peered over the boy's shoulder at Sherlock's book. 

“I didn't realise that botany books were a part of assigned reading these days,” Gregory teased, and Sherlock's frown deepened, his brows furrowing as he shot Gregory a look of betrayal, drawing a laugh from the boy. 

 

After a pointed expression from Mycroft, the younger Holmes sulkily retired to his room, leaving the older boys to their work. Not long after they'd pulled out their books, Mrs. Hudson entered the lounge with glasses of lemonade and various baked goods, which Mycroft was both impressed by and grateful for. She quietly introduced herself, and told Mycroft to call on her if she was needed, before leaving them to it. It seemed she still knew how to host, and as both John and Gregory dove into her offerings with fervour, it seemed she had passed their approval whole heartedly. 

“Christ, these cupcakes are _divine_ ,” Gregory groaned around his mouthful, spraying crumbs everywhere, and Mycroft shifted as a sudden spike of arousal tore through him. The act itself should have been disgusting, but that sound? That sound should be _outlawed_. 

 

He offered a shaky smile in reply and nibbled on his own cupcake, frowning as frosting got entirely too much in the way and he stuck his tongue out to grab at the sickly sweet concoction smeared across his lips. When he turned back to meet Gregory's gaze, the boy was watching him  _very_ intently, his own cupcake sitting half eaten in his hand as a pink flush crept across his cheeks. John snorted then, tearing Gregory's gaze from Mycroft's so he could glare at the other boy instead. 

“Keep it in your pants, Lestrade, it's just frosting,” John teased, offering raised brows in Mycroft's direction, as the vampire spluttered on his mouthful, mortified at John having noticed the exchange. Greg grinned lazily then, however, and lifted his shoulder in a shrug. 

“If it were on anybody else but Alex, I'd be inclined to believe you,” Gregory murmured, wiggling his brows in Mycroft's direction, as John laughed and swat at his friend, Mycroft's heart catching in his throat. 

 

Thankfully, the tension eased a little on the re-emergence of Sherlock, who had spent an entirety of the past fifteen minutes pretending to do his homework, of which Mycroft was certain was still sitting in his bag, untouched. Mycroft knew he would make no further progress on trying to convince Sherlock, and so, merely nodded his acknowledgement of temporary defeat as Sherlock sat back on his spot on the sofa and picked up his book, his gaze shifting from time to time to where John sat cross legged on the floor. 

 

“Christ, I don't even understand half of this shit,” John frowned, before looking guiltily at Sherlock and frowning, “Sorry, I probably shouldn't swear.”

“It's quite alright,” Sherlock replied, his eyes drifting across the pages of his book, “I hardly give a fuck, after all.”

“ _William_ ,” Mycroft urged, as Gregory and John burst into laughter, and Sherlock looked up innocently from his book, mischief dancing in his eyes. He seldom swore, but that was twice in one day that he had used a curse to invite laughter, and it was a habit that Mycroft knew Sherlock would need to break in a hurry. Sherlock pointedly rolled his eyes at Mycroft's disapproving stare then and retreated to his room without having to be asked, much to Mycroft's relief. 

 

The boys all worked on their project then, settling into a comfortable silence, broken by the occasional question or comment, and the turning of pages. After about half an hour of work, John stood and stretched somewhat dramatically, as he rubbed at his leg and frowned, causing Gregory to look up in concern. 

“A bit stiff, mate?” he asked, and John nodded. 

“Probably overdid it at rugby,” John shrugged, bending his knee and rolling his neck to get out whatever cricks had formed along the way. 

 

“Is that how you became friends?” Mycroft asked, his curiosity getting the best of him, and Gregory grinned, shaking his head. 

“No, we've been mates for years,” He explained, “We used to live next door to each other years and years ago. John ended up moving out this way and I followed him, much to my parents' displeasure. Can't say they were too thrilled.” 

“Well it was too much of a coincidence to let me get away,” John teased, and Mycroft raised a questioning brow. 

“We told each other we had to stick together, cause we had a theory about our soul-bounds,” Gregory explained, as John rolled up his sleeve and grinned, holding his arm out and causing any heat in Mycroft's body to drain from him at the words printed there. 

 

Impossible. It just wasn't  _possible_ . 

 

“It's not like Holmes isn't necessarily a common name, but for the both of us to have one of them seemed more than coincidence,” John grinned, nodding at Gregory, “I figured if he ever found Mycroft, I'd be able to bully the guy into finding Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft's book fell from his hands with a clatter and a sharp gasp as he sat bolt upright from where he'd been lounging on the floor, and his fingers snatched at John's wrist, needing to be absolutely certain. John seemed startled by the action, but patient as ever, as the older Holmes ran his fingers along the inked inscription of his little brother's name. Mycroft's lungs felt as if there were an iron vice around them, squeezing as tightly as it could manage, as his face went through a myriad of what he knew were constantly shifting expressions. 

 

“Alex?” John queried softly, concern rampant along his features as Mycroft let the boy's wrist go, as if burned. 

“I... Sorry,” Mycroft murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor as his fingers curled into fists, “It... It's very rare, that is.”

“Yeah, we've been told that ever since we started pointing it out to people. Are you... alright?” John pressed, obviously confused and turning to Mycroft for some kind of answer. Mycroft wasn't sure he could provide one, however, his hand rubbing absent mindedly at his wrist as his thoughts clattered noisily through his mind. He'd never asked, never checked, didn’t think anything of finding another John in a sea of many. But John... John _Watson... Sherlock's_ John Watson, of all people, was standing in his living room. 

 

Mycroft schooled his features as quickly as he could manage, but it didn't stop his body from radiating distress through scent, and he soon found both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson hovering in the doorway. Mycroft subtly tugged John's sleeve down before Sherlock had the chance to see, and offered a casual smile. 

“Sorry, just superstition,” Mycroft waved a hand airily, and John and Gregory exchanged puzzled expressions, before the tension dissipated as quickly as it had arisen.

“Some people get pretty worked up about it, but I didn't realise you were the type,” Gregory teased lightly, and Mycroft offered a tight smile as he flicked a reassuring glance in his brother's direction, who nodded, before disappearing to his room once again. Mrs. Hudson continued to linger, however, before she offered a smile and asked Mycroft to help her with their next round of drinks. The older Holmes excused himself, and John and Gregory returned to their quite conversing, Mycroft certain that their topic of discussion would certainly be him as soon as he'd left the room. 

 

“Is everything alright, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked quietly, her voice whisper soft as Mycroft let out a shuddering breath, and ran a hand through ginger locks. He leaned against the counter, his palms flat against the surface as he swallowed down the burgeoning nausea burning through him. Six hundred years of _nothing_ , of nary a _sign_ of either of the Holmes' brothers soul-bounds, and within the space of a week, _both_ of them are revealed. Frustration sat thick and leaden in his stomach, as he tried desperately to clutch at the straws of what this all meant. What it meant for Mycroft, for their new school friends, for Sherlock. 

 

God,  _Sherlock_ . 

 

Mycroft had had a hard time coming to terms with the abrupt appearance of Gregory, and despite Sherlock's best efforts at attempting to convince him otherwise, Mycroft was certain that the younger would be... rattled... at the very least. 

“In our lounge room, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft murmured softly, “Sits Gregory Lestrade and... And John Watson.” 

There was a violent clatter, as the drink Mrs. Hudson had been pouring toppled onto the counter, a had raising to her chest as her mouth parted in a dazed stupor. 

“John... Watson?” She breathed, and Mycroft's fingers clenched tighter at the counter, the marbled surface cracking slightly beneath the rolling tension channelling through his fingertips as he offered a stiff nod in reply.

“Oh, but... Oh, poor Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson frowned in apparent distress, “John's so much... older. The physical of it all, and with the way Sherlock is, it's... Oh _Mycroft_...” 

For the briefest of moments, he allowed Mrs. Hudson to see his weakness, his aching insides, his turmoil, his indecision. Poor Sherlock indeed. 

 

The younger's words still echoed in his mind. 

 

 _'I am, and always will be, a child in his eyes in any sense, regardless of if we met or not._ '

 

And what of John? What would the aspiring doctor have to say of his soul-bound being, as far as the boy knew, seven years his junior? Would John foolishly believe it was worth waiting, not realising that Sherlock would forever be a young boy? That physically, Sherlock would never hit puberty, never grow, never develop, even though mentally, his time of maturity had long since passed? Mycroft steeled himself as best as he could, nausea still thick in his abdomen, still tight across his chest, as he met Mrs. Hudson's gaze.

 

“You mustn't tell him,” He murmured softly, and hesitation was glaringly obvious across the woman's face.

“Oh, but Mycroft, he has a right to know, and-”

“You _must not tell him_ ,” Mycroft warned, voice low and commanding, and Mrs. Hudson bowed her head in reluctant submission, her fingers wringing the tea towel in her hands as she nodded, her hand still held against her chest as her eyes creased with a sadness that echoed resolutely within Mycroft's chest. If Sherlock were to find out about Mycroft keeping this from him, he wasn't sure what would happen, but for now, the alternative was unthinkable. He needed to gather his thoughts, compose a plan. 

 

In the immediate future, however, hearing John laugh at something Gregory had said in the lounge room, stoicism would be his ally once again. He had guests to entertain, and as hollow as his chest was at the thought, a Sherlock in the dark was a temporary compromise. For how long, he didn't know, but he pressed his mind onward and plastered a smile along his lips, leaving a distraught Mrs. Hudson to clean up the spilled beverages trickling across the counter as Mycroft's control very nearly had. 

 

' _I'm doing the right thing_ ', he reassured himself, heading into the lounge and pointedly ignoring the unease in his chest that desperately tried to warn him otherwise. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's only gonna get worse before they get better for poor Sherlock. But hey, one of my rules for this prompt was happy endings. Whether I stick to that or not? Well... 
> 
> (spoiler: Yes. I will. Have hope)
> 
> ALSO! I've decided I'll ramble about this fic sometimes on my tumblr, cause my brain gets a tad overwhelmed sometimes. 
> 
> Soooo... Keep an eye on http://croatoan-the-line.tumblr.com/tagged/six_centuries_later and I'm sure things will pop up here and there.
> 
> (and I'm not gonna ask any of you to follow me, cause that's actually my main blog which is mainly supernatural and all that jazz, but if you do want to follow my sherlock blog, that's morihearteries on tumblr. Ta.)


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